American Thighs
by BallinBlonde21
Summary: Clary hasn't seen Jace in 7 years. While he was rocketing to stardom, she's been struggling to stay afloat. Surrounded by stardom and forced together by external forces (read: Izzy Lightwood), will their lingering love be able to overcome their troubled past? AU/AH I wrote most of this in 2015 and just decided to publish!
1. Prologue

_This is part of a 100 page monstrosity that has been sitting on a flash drive since 2014, which I've decided to sort through and publish for your entertainment. Please enjoy and go easy on me, as I wrote it awhile ago and don't feel like entirely restructuring the story. I will, however, be editing for cohesiveness and maybe parts that sound like they were written by a child (haha), so updates will be pretty regular. I have a few of these from that flash drive that I'm hoping to share in the coming months, so if you'd like to see more, please let me know! Also, I will be updating NFJL next, so stay tuned!_

_Anyway, please enjoy, and let me know if you want me to write the songs that inspired the parts or if I can just leave those out!_

Extra bonus for naming my favorite song (hint: it's in the title). Enjoy my lovelies! 3

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**American Thighs**

Prologue

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Her New York upbringing had a few advantages—autonomy for travel as soon as she was old enough to understand the transit networks, entertainment for when nothing was worth squinting at through the television static, and an attuned sixth-sense for spotting friends in masses of strangers. Due to this honed locating ability, there were a few cars she'd come to know well. She could recognize her mother's burgundy Taurus that carried her home on paint-stained cloth seats after a long day of work, the dent in the passenger side door a dead giveaway. She used to hear the hum of her father's Cadillac from down the street, blending into the midnight sky, though now she didn't know if he even drove that anymore. Of these, though, the one she was most familiar with is Jace's old Cavalier. Of all ways to traverse this beautiful city, seated beside the boy with long, golden curls was by far her favorite. The car itself was nothing special, just blue with rust eating at the edges. The gears tended to protest and had to be coaxed from park to drive, and even then, Jace sometimes had to sweet-talk it to get the stubborn wheels to move. Springs demanded attention as they stabbed the passengers in the ass if they didn't balance delicately on the left edge, and one mirror was held by a wrapping of duct tape, often flying across the lanes if the driver made an abrupt stop, which, in New York, was pretty frequently.

But Jace loved that hunk of metal and was often found stroking its hood in the driveway, mumbling compliments at his beloved Austin Carr. _It's ironic!_ he'd protested after she'd booed him for naming his vehicle after a Cleveland Cavaliers player rather than their beloved Knicks. _It's a Cavalier, Clarissa_, he'd stated, looking at her over the top of his sunglasses like she were a child in need of a punishment. She hated when people call her by her full name. Jace knew this, and it earned him a bright purple bruise on his left arm.

For all its faults and flaws, Austin was the reliable car that would haul the pair to school, Jace belting out the words to the same three songs on repeat, his honey-coated voice soothing the annoyance of rush hour traffic. It was the car that she slept in when Jace toted his beaten acoustic guitar to smoky pubs and bat mitzvahs, the soft strumming of his fingertips outside enough to lull her into the great abyss. It was much more than a car back then. It was an escape—from her house, from her parents, from her life. She'd prop her feet on the faded dashboard and deliberately sing off-key to the radio as Jace took her around the backstreets of their neighborhood, weaving humorous stories about the people milling on the sidewalks. _His name is Richard_, she could hear him saying, his voice like an old record that hadn't been played in years, _but everyone calls him Dick. He resents that name and makes it his personal mission to castrate those who use it._ Austin Carr the Chevy Cavalier paired with his owner became her saving grace as she entered her teenage years.

She'd be lying if she denied any pain at the sight of it sitting vacant in the neighboring driveway, coated in a fine layer of dust that Jace normally wouldn't let settle. Day in and day out, the sun caressed the same spots, fading unevenly as it refracted through the cracks in the windshield. She could see his Mets cap tucked in the corner of the dash, his graduation tassel and a pair of fuzzy dice she'd given him adorning the rearview mirror. She could see the sleeve of her gray St. Xavier's sweatshirt tossed haphazardly in the backseat, but she didn't have the heart to get it.

The curtain slipped from her fingertips as she shielded the car from her view, hoping to sever its connection to the resurfacing memories. The flimsy barrier proved too weak as an agonizing longing took root in her belly, slowly expanding outward until she felt her body ready to explode—not that she'd mind. It had become a routine thing, to stare at something that reminded her of Jace and let it consume any piece of happiness she attempted to cling to. A ritual of sorts that only served to solidify the notion that while their love was real to her, it meant absolutely nothing to him.

Her other finger hovered absently over the dial button, the cheery green an incorrect representation of the call she wanted to place. The ten digits mocked her weakness, laughing at her lack of self-control, at her desperation. She set her jaw, pressing down hard with her thumb as an aggressive retaliation for the object's jeering.

Among all the things her heart had memorized about Jace, the scene his answering message conjures up was the most striking. She knew he was leaning his back against the edge of her bed as he spoke, the sun casting shadows through his eyelashes and down his cheekbones. She'd been sifting her fingers through his long curls, musing silently about how much he truly needed a haircut. _This hair is rock-and-roll, Clary. You wouldn't understand._ He'd only taken one breath during the entire recording—the lungs of a singer. He spoke smoothly, save for the moment his voice raised slightly as he said his name because she'd poked him in the ribs, earning her a signature headshake as he finished the message.

Y_ou've reached Jace! I've got better things to do than answer this call, so leave a message. I might return it!_ She could hear her own muffled voice in the background, playfully chastising him for such an unprofessional answering message.

_What if, like, Barack Obama calls you to visit the White House?_ He'd rolled his eyes, flopping onto the bed next to her so than the sun now reflected directly in his aureate eyes, shimmering like molten gold.

I_'m not exactly presidential material. Besides, I'm probably hanging out with you anyway,_ he'd rationalized, and back then, she'd been too naïve to have any further argument. Now, as her ragged fingernail, unpolished and chewed to the nub, ended the call, she finally had a rebuttal.

"It hurts," she whispered to the empty dial tone like his voice would magically cut through. As expected, the monotonous buzz only harmonized with the hollowness in her chest. She pulled her knees up, curling in on herself as she finally pulled the noise away from her ear. He'd certainly found better things to do than return her calls and messages, than to let her know that he was even still alive. She often found herself asking Isabelle how he'd been, casually as to not seem too invested in the conversation. Then she had to pretend like it didn't kill her when Izzy answered like they talk all the time, like he wasn't purposefully ignoring her.

Sobs finally wracked her withering body, violently throwing her forward onto her hands and knees. They're the kind of sobs that only added to the silence, like even the sounds took too much effort.

Her brother found her this way, his black eyes a reflection of the pit of despair she used to jokingly call her soul. Now she couldn't find a more fitting description. "Why did he leave, Jon?" she asked with bated breath, her eyes refusing to focus on the man before her. Of course, her brother believed she's asking about the man that gave him the striking combination of snowy hair and moonless eyes.

"I don't know, Clare. I don't know."

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_Leave a review?_

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	2. Damage Control

_I've decided to upload chapter 1 as well just to get the ball rolling. Clary, Jonathan, AND Sebastian are siblings in this story, just as clarification! Please enjoy!_

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**American Thighs**

Chapter 1: Damage Control

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**Seven years later**

The lights are blinding as someone yanks open the curtains, flooding the apartment with warmth. Jace groans as he rolls over, only to fall flat on his face. Blinking his eyes a few time, he finds himself on the stained wood of his living room floor, the dark eyes of a curly-haired demon boring heavily down on him. He feels like he was staring up at a spinning drill bit right before it is pressed to his skull—emphasis on spinning. "Where's the flood?" he muses in a rough voice as he finally settles enough to take her appearance in. She tugs at her cropped leggings before lashing out and kicking him square in the chest. He grunts but chuckles darkly at Maia's reaction, ignoring the splitting pain in his head in an attempt to look sober. "Why are you here—" he begins, knowing exactly why the Angel of Death herself decided to pay him a visit, but Maia's rant cuts him off.

"You don't ask the questions here," she growls, narrowing her eyes like the detectives in cheesy television series. Jace reaches out to the bottle of Jack sitting on his coffee table, a lifeline of sorts. "No more, Jace." Her not-hungover reflexes are much faster than his as she snatches it, giving it a disgusted look like it had just offended the cows of her great ancestors. Jace heaves himself from the floor, giving her as harsh of a glare as he can muster through the pounding in his head.

"I was under the assumption that these situations also require a good cop." He debates making another lunge for the bottle, but quickly decides against it, not wanting to know what Maia would think of him than. Drunkard. Addict. Broken beyond repair. He shoves those thoughts away with a sour expression, and instead, presses the heels of his hands deep into his eye sockets, hoping the pressure and darkness will ease the jackhammer pounding away at his skull.

"This…this…relationship between you and Jack Daniels is over," she hisses like an overly jealous girlfriend, dumping the nearly empty bottle into the trash. It's followed by the distinct shattering of glass. At this, Maia is human enough to look sheepish, muttering a quick unsentimental apology.

"So young. So full of potential," he whines, mourning his relationship with the bottle of whiskey. He brushes by her in search of a pain reliever for his head.

"Be serious, Jace!" she continues, much to the boy's dismay. He hopes she doesn't try to ransack his penthouse for all the alcohol he owns. At least he had the good sense to stash his favorite bottles by his underwear, knowing Maia wouldn't touch those for a million dollars. Okay, maybe for a million, but not like—ten—or whatever a bottle of Bacardi is worth. She stomps after him as he leans over the sink to rinse the foul taste from his mouth. "All this drinking is making my job extremely difficult." Jace snorts, nearly losing the water he'd begun chugging through his nostrils.

"If I don't get drunk every once in a while, you'll have no job." Maia's eyes widen like saucers before quickly narrowing to slits. He swears this woman can haunt the nightmares o even the most evil villains. Take Scar for example, who kills his own brother and then convinces cute, baby Simba it is all his fault. Yes, Maia can certainly make Scar cower in fear.

"Once in a while?! Do you even remember this whole past week, mister 'I got kicked out of two clubs, three pubs, and nearly burned down a five-star restaurant'?" Her words all jumble together in Jace's mind as he flops ungracefully onto the couch again, rolling his eyes uninterestedly toward his publicist.

"How was I supposed to know that my festive sparkler would set that girl's hair on fire? If you ask me, I did her a favor." He smirks to himself, remembering this night fondly. "It looked as if several raccoons had been nesting in her scalp." Maia finds no humor in his words, even though the girl was not harmed and didn't press charges after Jace easily wooed her between she sheets, charred bun and all.

"That is not the point, Jace." The normally picturesque lines of her face are settled in a harsh scowl, reminding him more of a mother than the rebellious woman who used to sneak into parties to slip her business card to A-list celebrities. He quite liked that girl.

"Why did I even hire you as my publicist? You're no fun anymore." Maia's face falls once more, but she hides it quickly as Jace turns on the news.

"We all have to grow up sometime," she supplies, ignoring his answering grunt, his usual reaction to things that upset him. It's a way of keeping this pretense of impassiveness, of tricking the world around him into thinking he has no emotions. In reality, he feels all too much. His lonely childhood, the disappointment of his friends and family—all tear him apart on the inside. He just doesn't put it on display. He'd long ago shoved his feelings into the darkest recesses of his brain, quickly squashing any slight memory of humanity that popped back up. It's easier this way, to leave it all behind and let everyone live their life the way it's supposed to be—without him.

The lady on the news in a tight pink skirt seems to have bought his act as she begins talking about what are presumably last night's escapades. Once again, Jace Herondale has proven how low he's really sunk by getting into a bar fight with two visiting Americans—Jace turns off the TV as a picture of his drunkenly enraged face occupies the screen. So maybe he isn't proud of who he is around Jack Daniels and Jim Beam, but he can't stay away. No matter how much shame he feels, he drowns it by finding the bottom of a bottle.

"For the record," he breaks the silence, plastering a smug expression on his face, "that guy threatened my favorite body part and threw the first punch." Maia is unamused by his ever-present ego.

"Look, Jace," she murmurs, her eyes transfixed on the blackness as if she can still see his wild golden eyes, "we fly to the U.S. for your tour in less than a week, and at first ticket sales were skyrocketing with this bad boy image you've been created. And now they're dropping. The reality is, people don't want to see a criminal in concert." Jace's eyes fall to his lap where he twists the metallic ring on his finger. It is engraved with soaring birds, the ancient Herondale crest. For years, his ancestors have been honorable warriors, leaders, and kings. He brings disgrace to his family name. He shoves away the image of his father's distraught face before returning to the present conversation.

"I've never been convicted of anything," he mumbles, still blinking back against the headache that accompanied the light. Or is it the resurgence of his past?

She sighs the way mothers do when they've had enough of their children's disrespect. "Just…clean up your act until then at least. Please." She adds that almost as an afterthought as she breezes out the door, shouting into her phone as soon as it is closed behind her. He curses under his breath, his eyes drifting toward the trashcan where his bottle lay in pieces.

X.O.X.O.X

"Clary, I wish you wouldn't do that," Sebastian complains gently as she lights the cigarette balanced on her red lips. She makes an unladylike noise as her thumb sparks the flame, knowing her disregard for his concern will only serve to anger him more. She can't find it in herself to care as she begins early inhaling the addictive drug. Anger is the only emotion she can even feel anymore—the only one that gets through to her. She exhales slowly, watching the gray smoke curl and dissipate into the humid night air, the scene somewhat calming, familiar. Her painted fingers flick the ashes to the ground at her feet, her mouth moving to blow a rogue ringlet from her eyes before meeting the gaze of her older brother once more.

"It's just when I'm stressed," she fibs, more smoke falling from her lips as she leans against the brick wall behind her. With one roll of his dark irises, Clary knows Seb sees right through her. She's always been a terrible liar, a trait that proved to be necessary in the house she grew up in. Jonathon had forever been their spokesperson, a liaison between her and her father, to tell the mistruths that protect her, to keep her from the pathway of Valentine's wrath.

She derails that thought train quickly, flickering her gaze back to her brother, only to find he has that look about him right now. Must have learned it from Jonathon. His tanned face, in high contrast with the Morgenstern pale skin, has changed entirely since they were young, the boyish features thinning out into a strong jawline and a straight, narrow nose, the glasses once perched on the bridge long since replaced with contacts, but the protective expression remained the same—same downward turn of his mouth with puckered lips, the stern arch of his eyebrows above soft, sad eyes, the crossed arm and widened stance as if he prepared to leap at anything threatening in the shadows. He longs to help her, to fight the demons she's been facing for so long, but in reality, he doesn't even know how much has been plaguing her.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she stretches her shoulders out with a pop. Being stressed isn't a lie. Working two jobs to keep herself afloat for the past year has taken a toll on her mind and body, leaving her more exhausted at the beginning of the day than she'd ever been at night. Her joints ache, her toned muscles burning with the raw agony of a workout as she tasks herself with routine activities. Often times, her feet refuse to support her weight, sending her crashing to the dirtied carpet of her one-bedroom apartment.

The cigarette feels like a dumbbell in her hands, a ball and chain she can't release herself from. She'd taken to smoking when she'd been told it would make her sexier, more appealing to the men she dances for and therefore wealthier in tips. She isn't addicted, just desperate to be good at her job. She knows her recreational smoking habit does nothing to aid her financially, but she can't stop herself from lighting one up as soon as the liquor begins flowing.

"Clare," her brother murmurs gently, resting a big hand on her shoulder. She hides the way it hurts her. "I can help you with money—" She raises her hand in a warning, cutting off his pitiful offer. She is not a charity case and refuses to be treated as such. She is a strong, independent woman fighting her way through life the same as any other person. She tells him as much, continuing to say she doesn't miss the extravagant life they used to live, not when that money came from Valentine's hand. She knows entirely too well what money can do to a person, how it can control one's every action, rot one's soul from the inside out until there's nothing but an empty void inside. She'd been forced to sit passenger as it overtook her father, wiping the gentleness from his touch and the kindness from his smile.

She worries that soon she'll have to witness as Jonathon succumbs to the evils of commercial value, doing anything for another dollar. She didn't dare voice these fears, though, not wanting to compare her brother to someone as vile as Valentine. He is not their father. Though he's chosen not to call lately.

It's times like this when she is thankful Sebastian had a different father, that he had the kind brown eyes and the pure soul of their stepfather Luke. He isn't weighed down by the constant terror of giving into the greed wound in the helix of her DNA—the Valentine disease as she and Jonathon used to call it. Sure, Sebastian had been forced to pave his own way, unaffiliated with the Morgenstern fame, but eventually he broke into the film industry and never looked back.

Seb's eyes flicker across her face, down her cheeks, over her stomach, undoubtedly making sure she isn't emaciated like she'd once been. "I picked up a new job, Seb," she attempted to soothe. "I'm going to be fine." His jaw flexes, but thankfully he bites his tongue. He finds it useless for her to work herself ragged when he can easily house her under his roof. She doesn't want his handouts or his pity. Truthfully, she fears it will turn her into Valentine. It runs through her veins, the endless hunger for power he'd suffered, plaguing his every form of consciousness, driving him near the point of insanity. Her mind is preset to collapse under power, to destroy the lives of those around her to bring it all back.

She can't become him.

Won't become him.

"You should go back to the party, Seb. We don't want the paparazzi catching pictures of us together." Only then does she notice the black baseball cap he wears low over his brown waves, disguising his face from the world around. His chocolate eyes flicker between hers before he sighs, putting his tail between his legs and shuffling back into the pulsating lights of the club. He's never been one for fights. Neither is she. Not since narrowly escaping the battlefield that was her childhood.

She watches his retreating form warily, hoping no camera flashes disrupt the dimness of the alley. It really is dangerous to hang around him, better to stick to the shadows and hope to remain hidden from her past. She doesn't want to be his burden.

His stunning good looks have brought him fame on the big screen as well as among modeling agencies, striking it big enough to become the new face of Calvin Klein, ironically preceded by Jonathon. She is proud of him, but she can't shake the nagging feeling that her father played a part in orchestrating those interviews, hoping his fame would bring her whereabouts to light.

Sebastian means well. He's offered to help her with money many times before, though he broaches the subject at the worst possible moments, when her pride is high and finances low.

Jonathon used to be no different, though his attempts were more subtle. A seemingly random invite for dinner here, a shiny new pair of shoes there. She couldn't deny those acts of kindness, and even when she tried, Jonathon insisted. He is as persuasive as their father, with his dark, seductive eyes that swirled with both hypnotization and hell. While her father used his for evil, his look-alike son turned his toward the big lights of the stage. This all changed after his scare.

She shivers, the way she used to under Valentine's frosty glare.

"Hey, a voice resounds from beside her, making her jump slightly. She never liked to be startled. A gasp is trapped in her throat as she tries to conceal her fear, smoothing her short leather skirt before turning around.

"Si, you scared me." Her best friend pushes his glasses up onto his nose, giving her a toothy grin as he slings his arm casually around her shoulders. There's nothing romantic about the gesture as he continues to recount the story of the projectile vomiting he'd just witnessed over by the bar. She shakes her head, hur curls brushing her bare arms as she stamps out her cigarette with the toe of her high heel. The old Clary would never have been caught dead dressed like this, in clothes that appeared to be hand-me-downs from a stripper, but then again, she is not the person she used to be.

She listens half-heartedly as Simon talks avidly about the night's exploits, describing in vivid detail every attractive female he'd seen. "She looked like Catwoman!" he exclaims loudly at one point, blushing immediately as stragglers begin to stare. Clary sniggers, using the ponytail on her wrist to tie her unruly curls into a knot. The pair have been friends since their diaper days, growing up together in the streets of New York, somehow staying together as the world changed entirely around them.

"Clary, I've been meaning to talk to you about something—"

"Staved Warthog is not a good name for your band, Si." Pulled from her thoughts of the past that can only drag her down to the pit of despair she often found herself scrabbling out of, she catches sight of the deadpan look he's giving her. Clary knows there are only two topics he can possibly bring up with that serious look: money or her father. She feels like talking about neither of them, so instead, she cracks a joke.

"Your suggestion has been noted, although your hurtful tone was poorly placed," he glares lightly, through his smile is still peeking through.

Another boy emerges from the club just then, sparing Clary from the lecture Simon is about to give her as the music pulsates heavily in the chilled air around them. She watches as he approaches Simon with an outsrteched had for a fistbump. Simon reciprocates the _manly_ greeting and turns to face her. "Hey, Clary, this is Eric Hillchurch. He's in my band." The thin-boned boy sticks his hand out in a greeting, startling Clary when he brings her frail hand to his chapped lip. Gray-blue eyes gaze at her through thin lashes as he flips his dirty blond hair.

"Always a pleasure to meet a member of Millennium Falcon."

"Millennium _Lint_!" Simon groans, mumbling something about the atrocity of stealing the sacred name of Han Solo's ship.

Eric ignores this entirely, still clasping Clary's hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Clary—"

"Morgenstern," Simon supplies, much to her dismay. She'd taken her mother's maiden name after her father's departure, mostly because both her father and brother are in the national headlines at least once a week. Eric simply nods, his eyelids lazily drooping over reddened eyes. Of course, he is a stoner. No one in their right mind would be in Simon's garage band. "Clary doesn't like the name Starved Warthog, so I was thinking we could go with Feral Vegetables or—" The woman in question shrinks slightly away from him as Eric's grimy fingers reach out to inspect a piece of her carroty hair. If anything is a feral vegetable, it is the mop on top of her head.

"I've seen you before somewhere!" he exclaims stupidly, his words stumbling over one another in the confused way that accompanies drug addiction. "I've seen you at Pandemonium!" Clary feels the heat of her blush creeping up her neck as he places her face, not missing the way his eyes drag oer her clothed body, undoubtedly remembering her performances. She isn't ashamed of her career at the club, but in the outside world, embarrassment strikes every time someone looks at her a bit too long, recognizing her from her risqué job.

Simon clears his throat heavily, dragging Eric's attention back to him. She mutters a thank you, but Simon just shrugs. He really hates that she's a stripper. He's never said as much, but the way he acts rings louder than any words he could ever say. _You have a four-year degree. You live in Los Angeles. You have options. _His eyes always dodge her whenever the topic comes up, and he is quick to give her newspaper clippings that advertise job openings in her neighborhood. He never really speaks directly of it, never asks which job she is working when she works long nights.

She hates the way her friends secretly judge her. Jonathon had his talents to skyrocket him to stardom. Simon was a boy genius, earning his PhD at the ripe age of 21. And Clary? Well, she can sketch a couple faces sometimes, when she finds inspiration. Mundane people have to find mundane ways to make a living, and when waitressing and bartending are not paying enough money, options become limited. Her position at Pandemonium offers her the highest income which helps her cover rent every months. She wishes her friends would understand it the way she does.

As she ignores the boys' conversation entirely, she wearily drags her eyes to a group of drunken college girls squealing loudly as they stumble into taxis, not before draping their nearly exposed chests all over the cabby's face. She won't be surprised if their ride is free tonight. Her mind wanders to her previous days as an aspiring artist starting out at NYU, when the world stretched endlessly in front of her, full of opportunities and excitement. She never really partied, allowing Seb to drag her out with his fellow film majors every once in a while, but she much preferred the company of her sketchpad and coffee mug. She wonders if it would be different had she not been forced to give up her internship the summer after she graduated. Would she be touring the world, showing her art at exclusive events in France or Italy? Would she own her own studio, painting murals for Brad Pitt and Ashton Kutcher? Or would she still be floundering in the slums of one of the richest cities in the U.S.?

She really wishes she hadn't smoked her only cigarette as she feels herself struggling to breathe. It's always like this when she lets the past in. It crushes her slowly at first, like a boulder hovering in the chains of a crane. Then the crane breaks down, and the weight smashes down on her. The past demands to be remembered when all she wants to do is forget. "Clary?" Si breaks through to her, his voice laced with concern. Damn it. Why can't someone just yell at her for once? She is sick of all this babying, all this tiptoeing around the _broken child_ everyone thinks she is. How is she supposed to move on when no one is giving her room to do so? Can't they see her suffocating beneath the protectiveness? Maybe that's exactly why she'd taken this stripping job in the first place. Never before would she have even considered taking her clothes off for money, but the freedom she feels, the inhibition of having men stare at her with raw desire instead of worry—it's intoxicating. It's more of a drug to her than the nicotine is. It feels like a breath of fresh air after years of drowning. It's like shouting _you don't own me_ from the peak of Mount Everest, letting it echo around those who look down on her.

"I'm okay," she chokes out, waving off Simon's probing questions. Eric remains placid, either unaware or uninterested in the situation before him. Never has she wanted to hug someone more. She wrinkles her nose at that thought, the stench of marijuana driving it away quickly. She lets the world melt away again as Simon's attention returns to his bandmate.

If it isn't concern, charity, or judgement, her friends are trying to hook her up with someone they think to be suitable. Jonathon is always talking about his friend Jordan, whom Clary had never met. If it isn't this Eric character, Simon is dropping hints when Kirk or Matt are single. They don't catch Clary's sarcasm as she grumbles about them just arranging a marriage. In fact, Jonathon had once hired one of Hollywood's most elite matchmakers. The only way Clary had been able to get out of that one was to growl like a hostile dog until the blonde bimbo nearly tripped over her own feet rushing out of Jon's flat. She'd earned a stern lecture for that one.

The truth is, she just wants to _live_, to do all the things she'd missed out on. Her mind races to back to years ago, before anyone had hurt her. She thinks back to her childhood best friend with his shaggy blond hair, telling her to live without regrets, to not take any moment for granted. Those memories bring her back to the time they'd been arrested, when that feeling of euphoria that drove them both to run, to duck from the lights of the cops and slip into darkness. Dancing seems to be the only thing to get her that high, leading her to infinity, to weightlessness. Even when her muscles and bones are screaming for her to stop, she pushes forward, for once feeling beautiful instead of useless.

Shaking her head to clear away her thoughts, she calmly rejoins Simon and his friend before things become too unbearable.


	3. Numb

_Yay update! Please remember I wrote this in like 2015, so the show was still Michael and Kelly and I didn't feel like changing everything to Ryan. Sorry not sorry. Enjoy! :)_

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**American Thighs**

Chapter 2: Numb

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"Are you eating healthy?" Jocelyn's concerned voice filters through the telephone pressed to Clary's ear.

"Mmhm," the younger redhead responds, a spoon dangling from her teeth as she leans the phone against her shoulder and grabs a container of frozen cookie dough.

"You're as thin as a rail. I worry about you." Clary spoons some unbaked cookies into her mouth, staring thoughtfully out the window of her one-bedroom walkup.

"I swear, mom, I eat like a horse." Jocelyn's breathy laugh is quiet.

"And how about work? Did you find a new place to perform?" Clary sighs as their conversation takes a familiar turn.

"I'm still singing in the bar—"

"You know your dad could get you a gig somewhere without so much smoke! It's bad for your lungs," Jocelyn interjects, cutting her daughter off. Clary rolls her eyes, thankful her mother cannot see her to slap her upside the head for such disrespect.

"They don't let people smoke in bars anymore. This isn't the seventies." She can almost see Jocelyn nodding as she mumbles a quiet _oh, yeah, right. _"Besides, I don't want Valentine's help. I want to make it on my own." _I don't want to be under his control_, she adds mentally.

She can feel her mother's disapproval. "Jonathon's just so well off right now, singing in—"

Clary slams her fist down on the countertop, the spoon forgotten in the cookie dough. "Jonathon and I are _not_ the same person."

She hears her mother scratching her head, a nervous tick she'd acquired through the years. "I know, sweetie. I just, I worry."

"Yeah, you've said that already." She sighs, conceding. "I'm perfectly happy where my life is right now."

"Are you?" Is she?

"Yes." She remembers her dessert, using the spoon as a shovel to dig for the chocolate chips. How happy can she actually be if she can't even bring herself to tell her mother her real occupation?

Sure, she misses the old Brooklyn brownstone always filled to the brim with friends and laughter. She's nearly forgotten the warm hugs her father used to give her when she was young or the late nights spent in Jonathon's room confessing all her fears for the future. But that isn't possible today. So for now, she is content with her small apartment on the outskirts of LA.

"Jace is on _Kelly and Michael_ today." Clary bites her lip, now digging into the dough just because it is something to do, a distraction.

"I said that I'm happy, Mom. That means without him." She hears a mumbled _whatever_ before they say their goodbyes and click off, leaving Clary to stare at the blank television screen in unsettling silence. Even the honks of the angry drivers outside cannot break through her trance. Her mom can always see right through her, even when Clary doesn't understand it herself.

Curiosity gets the best of her as she flips to the correct channel, immediately engulfed in that familiar smirk, still the same though the rest has aged. He has a bit of scruff growing on his chin, his luminous golden eyes hardened instead of swimming with dreams, his messy blond locks falling to the middle of his ears instead of brushing his shoulders. He looks older. Better.

"Jace Herondale," Michael greets, sticking out his hand after he'd hugged Kelly, " good to meet the man that sang every song pumping through the locker rooms last fall." Jace chuckles lightly as Kelly settles herself delicately on her seat, crossing her toned legs and putting them on full display.

"So, tell me, Jace," Kelly starts, sliding a steaming mug of coffee in his direction. Jace makes no move to accept nor decline the beverage as Michael stands, kicking his seat over in the process.

Appalled, he begins yelling, "What are you doing?" Kelly starts in her seat, eyeing the large man with wide eyes. "They drink _tea_ in England!" With that, a butler hurries across the stage to deliver a teacup on a silver platter, which the Brit gladly accepts.

A dreamy look crosses Kelly's features as she rests her face on her fist, staring deeply into Jace's enamoring eyes. "Say some British words for us, will you?" The television audience erupts into cheers.

Jace sets down his tea, glancing past the cameras with a smile. "Um, knickers? Whilst? Bloke?" Kelly's eyes don't move from his face as he continues talking, a dazed smile gracing her pink lips. Michael taps her shoulder several times before she snaps out of it.

She clears her throat.

"So, as I was saying before Michael decided that offering you coffee would start an uprising," she gives Michael the side-eye, and he lifts his hands sheepishly, "rumor has it you spent quite some time in New York as a child." Jace nods quickly, leaning forward in his seat. His fingers are wrapped around his cup again, a smile gracing his perfect lips as he begins to discuss his history, _their _history.

"Yes, I spent my more impressionable years here, so I do enjoy a good cup of coffee now and then."

"Mmhm," Kelly nods, shuffling some papers before her. "It says that you returned to London when you were…eighteen?"

"Eighteen, yes," he affirms, Clary's heart leaping into her throat.

"To pursue your music career." Jace bobs his head once more. "So what's it like to return after eight years?" Jace shifts uncomfortably in his seat, running his hands through his hair out of nervousness.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," she murmurs, still toying with the food in front of her as she leans her elbows on the countertop. She wants to look away, to ignore the way he draws her in like a moth to a wildfire, to deny the dangerous hold her still has over her.

"Well, I've just been catching up with family and friends before I hit the road for the big tour." Michael finally speaks up before Kelly can ask another question, raising his hand in the air to fend off the blonde's angry remarks.

"Speaking of your tour, I heard that you are looking for an opening act. Is that correct?"

"Correct," Jace replies with a smile, the lights not catching the chip in his left incisor. She wonders if he'd gotten it fix.

"And it's a contest?" Another upward motion of his head makes the spotlights catch the expression in his eyes. The happiness in them makes her heart squeeze. He'd said he'd visited family and friends, but apparently she no longer fit into those categories. "Here, let's watch the trailer." The trio shift their heads to a screen behind them.

_Break down, take down, now it's on._

_Sold out, blow out, don't get caught._

_Well, no! Hell, no! What you gonna do,_

_When they keep coming for you?_

"Americans turn everything into contests," a British voice reflects smugly as the song fades, a throaty chuckle following his statement. His face fills the screen suddenly, the background hundreds of screaming fans reaching out, hoping just to touch the international rock star. The smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the skin at the corners, only intensifying their signature color.

The screen then cuts to clips of Jace performing in front of sold out arenas, an image of Jace sticking his tongue out while a glittery man attempts to tame his wild hair, a video of a muscled arm grabbing a handful of barbeque chips then panning to see Jace's cheeks puffed out and his face looking guilty. The last one shows Jace shaking his head with a laugh while pushing the camera away from looking up his nose.

_Bet some, get some, knock you down._

_Alone now, show down, kiss the ground._

_Well, no! Hell, no! What you gonna do,_

_Lights out, cut them in two._

_They'll be coming for you!_

Clary smiles when she finally sees the chip in his left incisor, the one that is often overlooked but she considers his most charming feature. His finger points directly into the camera, giving Clary the uncomfortable feeling he's pointing at her. "I'm coming for you, America." It may have sounded threatening had his voice not shaken with laughter.

An announcer's voice takes over, still showing Jace playing air guitar to the superimposed song, banging his head and sending his curls flying. "We're headed to New York, America! Come audition to be the opener on Jace's tour of the USA! And don't forget to watch _Jace Race_, Mondays at 7 pm on ABC." Before the screen cuts to black, it shows Jace stop banging his head long enough to look up in confusion.

"That's a working title." The frame sways, presumably as the cameraman laughs. Michael and Kelly clap as Jace looks at his hand in embarrassment, bringing his teacup to his lips to hide the growing smile.

"I understand you'll be holding several rounds of auditions."

Jace's eyes light up at the mention of his television show. He's always wanted to see his face on the screen. "Yes, in New York, Chicago, and our last ones are in Los Angeles."

"Okay, we are almost out of time, but we have one more surprise for our lovely viewers." Kelly says as the threesome stands up, moving closer to the open area where Michael and Kelly sometimes do workouts. "Maybe none of you know this, but August 5th is National Underwear day, so…" her sentence drops off as she claps her hands, calling to stage several giggling girls who make quick work of Jace's shirt and pants.

Jace doesn't even look embarrassed as he lets them strip him. "I'm not even American!" he bellows, though his flexing muscles say he likes the attention. "I don't recognize your national holidays!"

"Then why'd you always celebrate Thanksgiving at my house, Herondale?" she sneers at the television, thankful no one is around to witness this borderline psychotic behavior.

Soon the girls skittered away with blushing faces as Jace stands in a small pair of white briefs. He throws up his hands in mock defeat before placing them behind his head and giving his hips a little shake, his sculpted abs rippling with the motion. She can remember the feeling of them beneath her fingertips, hard and smooth all at once. "Get it together, Clarissa," she growls to herself, about to turn off the show. Jace turns around first, revealing an image of Michael Strahan's face across his butt cheeks. She bites back a laugh before turning the screen off, fighting off the onslaught of memories.

Clary grew up in a row of Brooklyn brownstones, the neighbor on her left side being the Lightwood family. Isabelle Lightwood had been Clary's best friend since they sprang from the womb, a secret door connecting their closest so they could sneak over into each other's rooms all the time.

When Clary and Izzy were eight, the Lightwoods adopted a ten-year-old Jace from London, meaning Clary had the pleasure of being tormented by the rockstar for eight years of her life, before he….left.

Jace had been her first crush, her first kiss, her first—everything. Isabelle didn't know all that, didn't know how they used to sneak around and talk in the covering of night, whisper secrets beneath blankets, share kisses on the pillow. She didn't know how he was the one who helped her through when her world was falling apart, how he force-fed her on the days when eating seemed like too much. But Isabelle did know how he abandoned her, left her without so much as a note, couldn't find it in himself to answer her phone calls.

Her hands reach for the laptop at the edge of the countertop, opening the screen and searching his name on Youtube. She finds the song she's looking for, the one that everyone thinks is about his first famous girlfriend, Maureen Brown. Clary can't help the creping suspicion that it's about her.

_Oh I have a lot to say_

_I was thinking on my time away_

_I miss you and things weren't the same_

_Cause everything inside, it never comes out right_

_And when I see you cry it makes me want to die_

It's terrifying how his smooth voice can still make her heart stop beating in her chest, how the mere thought of him has her palms sweating, her face turning red.

_I'm sorry you're bad_

_I'm sorry you're blue_

_I'm sorry about all the things I said to you_

_And I know I can't take it back_

_I love how you kiss_

_I love all your sounds_

_Baby the way you make my world go round_

_And I just wanted to say, I'm sorry._

She hears a knock at the door, followed by Simon's joyous cry that he has takeout and the original _Star Wars _trilogy in his hands.

She bites her lip and closes the laptop before he can see her cry.

X.O.X.O.X

Jetlag is the bastard love child of Monday morning and Nickelback, leaving the sufferer the ability to do little more than lounge on the sofa watching stupid Netflix comedies until the sun rises in their home country and sets in their current location. Maybe he should watch porn instead, but one look at his frazzled publicist leads him to believe if he flicked to the other channel, he would be torn apart in tomorrow's tabloids, labeled a pervert.

"Are you _kidding _me?" Maia groans, studying her reflection in the hotel's floor length mirror. Jace can see what she's blathering about, the exact reason why he's avoided all reflective surfaces since arriving in the United States. Her hair has fallen from its usual severe bun, sticking out in several directions like she's been electrocuted. Her eyes are rimmed in dark circles, and not just because her mascara has smudged down her cheeks. She looks horrible.

"Mirrors can't talk, Maia," he calls smugly over Phineas' laughter, making a show over dragging his eyes over her rumpled appearance. "Lucky for you, they can't laugh either." He dodges the Blackberry thrown at his face, watching it bounce to a stop by his feet.

"I will tear you apart. Rock star or not," she threatens, eyes narrowed. Jace merely shrugs, unperturbed by her words. He returns his eyes to the television screen, watching Candace rush around in a frenzy. Her carroty hair stirs something in him, an age-old longing that he's tried and failed to suppress. Dr. Doofenshmirtz's plan is cut off by the blaring of his phone, blasting a familiar song that hasn't filtered through those speakers in a long time. Maia's ears perk up. She knows.

"Don't you dare, Herondale," she warns, shifting her body to block the door. "You can't go out tonight." He gnaws on the inside of his lip, wondering if he can just lift her out of the way and make a quick escape. "I can't be moved," she hisses, reading his very thoughts. "You won't be caught cheating on your girlfriend by the paps. Not tonight."

"Kaelie is hardly my girlfriend. She fucks around all the time!" he whines like a spoiled child that's just been told _no_ for the first time. Maia sets her jaw.

"You promised to behave for a while."

"I've not had a drink since that night." That's the truth. "Just let me have sex with the pretty lady." He juts out his lower lip.

Maia snorts. "Maureen Brown is hardly your type of woman." This is true. With chestnut eyes and natural blonde hair, she's hardly the busty, bleached girl he usually strives for. She's nowhere near the crimson curls he dreams about. But she's a distraction, a way to forget the things he can never have. "You better not get her pregnant," Maia groans, stepping to the side to allow him to pass.

So he finds himself behind the wheel of his rented Audi, gliding it expertly around the turns he used to traverse every day. He doesn't give himself time to think of the woman he used to travel with, of the way her eyes lit up in the passing headlights, of the way her smile shone brighter than the stars. Instead, he pulls to the curb, tossing his keys to the valet before they can get close enough to have a look at him.

He pulls his hood up when he steps into the light of the lobby, drifting like a ghost past the receptionist as the elevator doors open. It hauls him to the fourteenth floor, playing strange music that only makes his heart beat faster.

She's waiting at the opened door before he even steps out, her body swathed in a silken robe, only a loose knot holding it together. She's tall, her lean legs on full display as she beckons for him to follow. He wants nothing more than to tear that cloth from her body, so he walks behind her at a quickening pace.

"Why did you follow me to New York?" he inquires of the London native, trying to keep his voice neutral, hiding the lust he feels for her. He hates himself for the way he treats these women, for using them for personal gain. He doesn't know any other way. His soul belongs to another, his being belongs to another.

"Not everything is about you, Jace Herondale," she counters, turning her hooded gaze on him. He focuses on keeping himself calm, his words steady.

"Possibly, but you have to admit, most things are." She laughs, a breathy noise that does little but ignite a fire of desire in him.

"I don't bite," she says after a while of him hovering at the edge of the bedroom, her hand smoothing the quilt beside her.

"I do." He watches her eyes darken at his words, her lips parting into an _O_. Her fingers find the tie of her robe, swiftly unknotting it and letting it pool around her.

"I'm not stopping you." He fights back against the disapproving emerald eyes in his mind as he stalks forward, a lion hunting its prey. He can feel himself losing control, giving in to his primal desires. She lets him run her fingers over his clothed chest while he works the snap on his jeans. Pushing her onto her back, he tears into her with savage abandon, caring not for her needs but his own. He can tell she's enjoying it, though, even without him trying.

"Let's…ungh…get back….together," she sputters, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. He pauses in his motions, eyeing her wearily as she props herself onto her elbows. "We were good together, Jace." He withdraws from her, yanking on his pants as fast as he can move. Her eyes flash. "It's not like you and Kaelie are serious," she adds, running her fingernails up his arm. He jerks away from her touch.

"I just…I _can't_ be with anyone. Not in the way you want me to." Hurt spreads across her face. "I'm sorry." He's not.

"No, you're not." Damn, she's good. He drinks her in once more before disappearing out the door. It's his own fault that he's like this.

"I need a drink," he mumbles to himself as they bring his car around, not paying attention to the slash in his back, left tire.


	4. Chasing Ghosts

_Update, update, update!...I'm sick sick sick so I don't have much to say. Enjoy!_

* * *

**American Thighs**

Chapter 3: Chasing Ghosts

* * *

Jetlag is the bastard love child of Monday morning and Nickelback, leaving the sufferer the ability to do little more than lounge on the sofa watching stupid Netflix comedies until the sun rises in their home country and sets in their current location. Maybe he should watch porn instead, but one look at his frazzled publicist leads him to believe if he flicked to the other application, he would be torn apart in tomorrow's tabloids, labeled a pervert.

"Are you _kidding _me?" Maia groans, studying her reflection in the hotel's floor length mirror. Jace can see what she's blathering about, the exact reason why he's avoided all reflective surfaces since arriving in the United States. Her hair has fallen from its usual severe bun, sticking out in several directions like she's been electrocuted. Her eyes are rimmed in dark circles, and not just because her mascara has smudged down her cheeks. She looks horrible.

"Mirrors can't talk, Maia," he calls smugly over Phineas' laughter, making a show over dragging his eyes over her rumpled appearance. "Lucky for you, they can't laugh either." He dodges the Blackberry thrown at his face, watching it bounce to a stop by his feet.

"I will tear you apart. Rock star or not," she threatens, eyes narrowed. Jace merely shrugs, unperturbed by her words. He returns his eyes to the television screen, watching Candace rush around in a frenzy. Her carroty hair stirs something in him, an age-old longing that he's tried and failed to suppress. Dr. Doofenshmirtz's plan is cut off by the blaring of his phone, blasting a familiar song that hasn't filtered through those speakers in a long time. Maia's ears perk up. She knows.

"Don't you dare, Herondale," she warns, shifting her body to block the door. "You can't go out tonight." He gnaws on the inside of his lip, wondering if he can just lift her out of the way and make a quick escape. "I can't be moved," she hisses, reading his very thoughts. "You won't be caught cheating on your girlfriend by the paps. Not tonight."

"Kaelie is hardly my girlfriend. She fucks around all the time!" he whines like a spoiled child that's just been told _no_ for the first time. Maia sets her jaw.

"You promised to behave for a while."

"I've not had a drink since that night." That's the truth. "Just let me have sex with the pretty lady." He juts out his lower lip.

Maia snorts. "Maureen Brown is hardly your type of woman." This is true. With chestnut eyes and natural blonde hair, she's hardly the busty, bleached girl he usually strives for. She's nowhere near the crimson curls he dreams about. But she's a distraction, a way to forget the things he can never have. "You better not get her pregnant," Maia groans, stepping to the side to allow him to pass.

So he finds himself behind the wheel of his rented Audi, gliding it expertly around the turns he used to traverse every day. He doesn't give himself time to think of the woman he used to travel with, of the way her eyes lit up in the passing headlights, of the way her smile shone brighter than the stars. Instead, he pulls to the curb, tossing his keys to the valet before they can get close enough to have a look at him.

He pulls his hood up when he steps into the light of the lobby, drifting like a ghost past the receptionist as the elevator doors open. It hauls him to the fourteenth floor, playing strange music that only makes his heart beat faster.

She's waiting at the opened door before he even steps out, her body swathed in a silken robe, only a loose knot holding it together. She's tall, her lean legs on full display as she beckons for him to follow. He wants nothing more than to tear that cloth from her body, so he walks behind her at a quickening pace.

"Why did you follow me to New York?" he inquires of the London native, trying to keep his voice neutral, hiding the lust he feels for her. He hates himself for the way he treats these women, for using them for personal gain. He doesn't know any other way. His soul belongs to another, his being belongs to another.

"Not everything is about you, Jace Herondale," she counters, turning her hooded gaze on him. He focuses on keeping himself calm, his words steady.

"Possibly, but you have to admit, most things are." She laughs, a breathy noise that does little but ignite a fire of desire in him.

"I don't bite," she says after a while of him hovering at the edge of the bedroom, her hand smoothing the quilt beside her.

"I do." He watches her eyes darken at his words, her lips parting into an _O_. Her fingers find the tie of her robe, swiftly unknotting it and letting it pool around her.

"I'm not stopping you." He fights back against the disapproving emerald eyes in his mind as he stalks forward, a lion hunting its prey. He can feel himself losing control, giving in to his primal desires. She lets him run her fingers over his clothed chest while he works the snap on his jeans. Pushing her onto her back, he tears into her with savage abandon, caring not for her needs but his own. He can tell she's enjoying it, though, even without him trying.

"Let's…ungh…get back….together," she sputters, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. He pauses in his motions, eyeing her wearily as she props herself onto her elbows. "We were good together, Jace." He withdraws from her, yanking on his pants as fast as he can move. Her eyes flash. "It's not like you and Kaelie are serious," she adds, running her fingernails up his arm. He jerks away from her touch.

"I just…I _can't_ be with anyone. Not in the way you want me to." Hurt spreads across her face. "I'm sorry." He's not.

"No, you're not." Damn, she's good. He drinks her in once more before disappearing out the door. It's his own fault that he's like this.

"I need a drink," he mumbles to himself as they bring his car around, not paying attention to the slash in his back, left tire.

The music in the bar thuds dully in the background, a heavy beat pulsating through the white noise in his ears. Had someone asked him how he'd gotten to the bar, he could vaguely recollect a catastrophic encounter with an ex-girlfriend and a flat tire on the edge of the interstate, but he cannot thread together a coherent story that lands him on the third barstool from the left wall. Yet there he sits, his finger chasing away the condensation on his glass of amber liquid as the bartender's annoyed gray eyes trail him warily. Jace knows what he has to be thinking, another drunkard solving his problems with the bottle, numbing the pain in the only way he knows how. Except Jace isn't a normal alcoholic. He knows that the bottom of the bottle is always dry, leaving the memories with a worst taste than before. Misplaced anger unfurls in his chest as he dodges the man's studying gaze. He isn't mad that the bartender thinks so lowly of him, that he'd become the stereotypical, successful yet unfulfilled man. Rather, he is afraid—afraid that the bartender is right. He is the cliché asshole stumbling into the bar, downing drink after drink even though he's long ago lost control of his hands, picking fights with other patrons just so the pain can remind him that he's alive.

Still he forbids these weaknesses to show.

Instead of cowering under the crippling fear he continues to experience despite his level of inebriation, he allows a lopsided grin to spread across his face, drunkenly lifting his whiskey to his lips with a silent cheer to the man behind the counter. He welcomes the familiar burn as it tears down his throat to the pit of his stomach, knowing that the fire in his alcohol is merely a tangible substitute for the inferno he can't reach within.

It isn't like he'd intended to spend the night drinking, purposefully disobeying his publicist's requests. He hasn't gotten completely shitfaced to spite the people that actually take the time to care about him. He does it to forget who he is, where he's come from, what he's done. Somehow, the fire is never enough to melt the wall of ice around his heart.

A sigh of false satisfaction falls from his lips as he drifts back to reality. The now emptied glass rests between him and the bartender again, those same calculating eyes now refusing to meet Jace's bloodshot ones, blatantly ignoring the blond as he calls for more booze.

_Maybe it's your sign to get out of here_, the last sober inch of his mind reasons. It's a small echo in the back of his ear, overpowered by the numbing effects of alcohol and the familiar rhythm pumping through the speaker system. He begins to drum his fingertips against the countertop as he continues his pitiful plea for whiskey.

It's his song—one of the old ones that actually meant something to him, back before his agent decided to outsource the song writing as a means to broaden his fame. It had pissed him off at first, since music is his escape, his way of releasing his feelings without really sharing how he felt. The dollar bills and screaming fans soon turned that hate into respect. Since then, he's built up so many walls that the song lyrics stopped flowing from his fingertips. No one is allowed inside his head anymore, barely even himself.

"And my weakness is, that I care too much. And the scars remind us, that the past is real." His head bobs lightly to the beat, his voice smooth and clear, devoid of the slurred speech that usually accompanies drunkenness. "I'm drunk, and I'm feeling down, and I just want to be alone—"

"Omigod," a voice squeals beside him. A tip of his head reveals a dark-haired barmaid sidling up to him, her chestnut eyes running up and down his disheveled appearance. "You're Jace Herondale." She doesn't seem to be put off by his state of disarray, so his eyes meet hers before dropping to his empty glass, confirming her suspicions. He'd thought that tucking his signature curls into his Mets cap would have given him enough cover to spend the night in drunken bliss, but stupidly, he'd forgotten about his eyes, the luminous atrocities resting on either side of his chiseled nose, both a blessing and a curse. "Can I get your autograph?" She stands in front of him now, her chest spilling out of her v-neck shirt and into his face as she pushes clean napkins toward him.

"Sure," he slurs as he takes a pen she's offered and illegibly scrawls his name across the white surface. He can't even bring himself to smile as she leans into his side, her body pressed tightly against his to take a picture with her phone. She winces after catching a look from her stern-face boss and returning to work.

"Hot damn," a thin man with tanned skin drawls beside him with a low whistle. "Jace Herondale, huh?" Jace doesn't give him the satisfaction of a response as he takes out his beat-up wallet and shoves a couple of bills across the bar. He no longer is in the mood for a drink. "Hey, Blackwell! It's Jace Herondale!" Jace's eyes flick up to catch the man twisting the handles of his white mustache. When he smiles, his teeth appear to have been filed to points.

"Ah, another rich kid feelin' down 'about his life?" Jace grimaces internally as a burly man with skin so pale it appears purple under the pulsating lights splits open the crowd. His hair is red, slicked back and collected in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. "What'r we gon' do wi' this un', Pangborn?" He speaks in a broken Scottish accent, like someone who hasn't lived in their home country for a long time.

"I say we show 'em what it's like to have to work forty hours a week and never earn more'n a dime, only to watch scumbags like this drown their 'problems' in top-shelf tequila at the local watering hole."

Jace decides that this is the optimum time to join the conversation. "Actually, I prefer cheaper tequilas because they come without the little grub at the bottom. Not that I'll sneeze at some Tequila Ley—" He reels back as the stockier one's fist connects with his face, his eyes opening to watch Blackwell flex his stubby fingers.

"Don' act like ya can relate," he growls in his face as Jace spits blood into his glase. "'en we'll 'ave real problems."

"You know, I'd tell you to go to hell, but I rent there and don't want to see your ugly mug every day." He slams his head forward into Blackwell, slipping from Pangborn's grabbing hands and landing a punch on his nose, satisfied by the sickening crunch it makes on impact. He steps from the bar and disappears into the alley, leaving the pair disoriented as the nighttime air cools his heated skin.

The fight sobered him up a little, removing the fog from his thoughts as he presses forward into the shadows, gingerly pressing his fingertips against the bruise forming on his cheekbone.

He'd been drinking to forget, and his memories begin flooding back, hitting him like a freight train on steroids.

August 5th—Kelly had reminded him of the date, so helpfully also reminding him of his public relations outing that afternoon, and of his family soaked in blood.

It's a day of loss, of learning. That day so many years ago, he'd learned that love can destroy. He can still see his father's face, twisted in agony as he cradles his mother's dead body, the stench of beer on his breath. He'd left streaks of blood against her pale skin where he'd caressed her cheek, the front of her cotton dress soaked through with the same crimson. "You understand, son. Don't you?" Jace hadn't even been able to move, his attention glued to his mother's eyes. Once ocean blue and fully of love, they were now glazed and unmoving, staring endlessly at the ceiling fan turning in circles.

"Mummy didn't want to get into the car with you," Jace tried to accuse, but his throat was closed with sobs.

"She needed to be set free," he whispered, closing her eyelids and letting his gaze drift to the twisted metal heap that used to be their car. He shifted her from his lap so that her golden curls rested in the puddle of blood on the carpet. "We all do."

He gasps, the cold air ripping through his chest as his stomach heaves, emptying the alcohol he'd been drinking against the wall of an alleyway. He sinks down beside it, the odor overpowered by the memory of his father's foul breath washing over his face as the knife sliced his skin to ribbons, his weak attempts to escape proving to be futile as his father's salty tears stung his wounds. A ragged scream tears up his aching throat, his mind returning to reality as he's hauled to his feet, arms pulled uncomfortably behind his back. He feels the cool metal cuffs clasped around his wrists, a burly voice barking in his ear. "You are under arrest for aggravated assault and public intoxication. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law—"

Jace is too weak to do anything but stumble forward as the cop shoves him harshly into the squad car. Cameras flash in his eyes, capturing his weakest moment for the world to see. It isn't their fault, though. They don't know. No one does.

The cop slams the door behind him, rattling the old bars that separate the criminals from justice. His eyes lazily follow the scowling officer as he pushes through the gathering paparazzi, parting them like the Red Sea as the cruiser lurches forward.

Unfortunately, Jace has sobered, his arrogance deciding to return to cover for the flaws he'd allowed to show.

"How long will this take, officer?" he groans, leaning back against the seat. "I have an engagement tomorrow at nine-thirty." The officer rolls his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I don't care if you're the Queen of England. When you are in _my_ squad car, you are on _my _schedule."

Jace scoffs. "I am much too masculine to be compared to Her Majesty."

The officer scowls, but Jace is never one to let his ego deflate, even handcuffed in a police car.

"Millions of girls, and guys, too probably, but that's beside the point, scream my name every night as they touch themselves to my music, and you have the audacity—"

The officer's gloved hands come down hard against the wheel. "If you don't shut the hell up right now, I will strap you to a rocket and launch it so high you'll spend the rest of your life blathering to yourself."

"Actually, I'd burn up in the atmosphere so—"

"SHUT UP!" Jace smirks, and the officer takes a hard right turn, grinning broadly as Jace smacks his head against the window.

"My agent will be irate if you've chipped my tooth," he growls, probing his mouth with his tongue.

"You already have a chipped tooth, Princess," the officer replies, pulling to the side of the road and yanking open the car door. Jace squashes the sentimental feelings returning at the thought of his chipped incisor, instead choosing to sit in furious silence as he is none-too-gently hauled to a standing position. "This is your stop," the officer declares, uncuffing him and pushing him toward an unfamiliar walkway. "Welcome to America," he shouts as he drives away.

"What just happened?" Jace grumbles to himself, blinking at the shadowy figure approaching him. _Oh, please, Angel, no_. "Mum!" he greets with a syrupy smile. "How are you?"

X.O.X.O.X

**Ride – Twenty One Pilots, Throne – Bring Me The Horizon**

Simon nods at Clary through the window of the pizzeria/Italian bistro/café/any food you can possibly imagine ever as she walks past, nearly salivating at the steaming pepperoni pizza situated before him. "Hey, Si," she greets as she pops a bite into her mouth, slipping into the booth only after devouring half the piece.

"Hey, Clary," he responded, completely immune to the level of disgusting Clary can reach when eating pizza. She's been known to get sauce on her forehead and cheese on her earlobes. "How was work today?" She shrugs. Simon knows the waitressing job is her least favorite, but it doesn't stop him from popping in and leaving her outrageous tips. At least when she works the bar, she's dealing mostly with happy drunks and groping couples. At the restaurant, though, there are entire families changing orders after the food has been brought out, nasty couplies in too much of a hurry for a sit-down meal, and the ever-loathed bad tipper. It leaves her more stressed than the money is worth, but she needs the job.

"How did things go with Wonder Woman?" she inquires quickly about the girl he'd met a few nights ago and equated to the super hero, knowing Simon had gone on a date with her.

"Cat Woman," he corrects her calmly before saying that she never answered his calls afterward, so it's a lost cause.

"You didn't woo her with your knowledge of Dungeons and Dragons?" Clary asks, pulling a laugh from her serious friends. "She honestly didn't tear her panties off when you showed her your collectable Pokémon cards?" Clary hasn't had much experience with relationships, since paying her bills doesn't leave much room for a social life or boyfriends.

"Maybe I should have lead with my featured memes on iFunny," he wonders aloud.

"You'll find your sidekick eventually." Simon snorts as he starts on his third slice of pizza, seemingly unconcerned with his nonexistent love life. Simon rarely gets excited about anything besides new video games and vintage comic books.

The phone in her lap vibrates to call for attention. "Shit," she curses after thumbing open the screen to check a notification from Twitter. Her personal account has a measly thirty followers, while her work persona had over ten thousand. The people in the general vicinity turn to stare at her, more with annoyance than interest, causing blood to rush to her cheeks as she shifts her gaze to Simon. "I'm going to be late for work." She starts tapping out a quick text to her boss, who had actually given her this iPhone solely for the purpose of maintaining her company Twitter account. "I have to go hail a cab—"

"Nonsense, Clary. I can drive you there." Clary shakes her head quickly, her face heating up again at the mere thought of Simon hauling her all the way to Pandemonium. Not only will he be ruining his night if he drives her all the way to the strip club, but if he then decides to stay, it may end up being embarrassing for the both of them. Granted, she never has to get completely naked for the crowds, but the thought of Si sitting there trying to stuff ones into her panties is horrifying.

"It's really okay," she breathes, fishing a couple of bills from her pocket and waving them into the air to catch the driver's attention. She can feel Simon's heavy gaze on her as she slips into the backseats and recites the address, refusing to meet his eyes through the rain-stained window like some romantic movie. She doesn't miss the cabby's once over in the rearview after shed asked him to take her to the strip joint. Definitely not a romantic movie. Maybe a comedy. Her life does seem to be one long-running joke.

Why is everyone so damned concerned about her? Millions of Americans struggle every year. Si and her brothers can go worry about them for shit's sake. She doesn't need it. The silence in the cab is filled by Jason Derulo's voice as he sings about some naked woman falling to the floor, and her thoughts shift radically. Did she faint? Why is she naked? Is Jason on the floor, too? She pays the fair as she steps onto the curb pondering such worldly and cultured questions as she slinks up to the door.

She greets the bouncer, and he gives her a warm smile, flipping back his long, black hair.

"Hey, Indecent Inferno," he returns, the inky tattoo on his left cheek crinkling with his grin. No matter how many times she tells him her real name, he always prefers her alter ego. Maybe that's what she likes about him—that he isn't afraid to tell her exactly how he feels. He slaps her ass cheekily as she passes through the threshold, his green eyes alight with mischief as she turns around to stick her tongue out at him. Ass slaps are something she'd become accustomed to. As soon as she got over the initial shock, she'd come to take them as a form of flattery. At least she knows she looks good walking away.

"And the princess finally arrives," her boss drawls, twirling his cross necklace around his finger. She gnaws her lip, but she doesn't have time for fear as Raphael pushes her down into a chair.

"I'm sorry, Ralph," she breathes as a woman in teetering heels approaches to swipe mascara on her cheeks.

"I can't be lax with you and not with everyone else," he chides, glancing around to see if anyone is listening. "This is your last warning." His eyes are hard as he dashes off to chastise a clumsy waitress.

Raphael Santiago is what most would consider an asshole. He owns Pandemonium and is always chastising the women for the most innocent of mistakes. A misplaced curl here, a dropped dollar there—women have been fired for less. Clary tends to overlook these things, attributing it to the stress of the workplace. The fact that Raphael doesn't want to fire her is just luck.

Clary doesn't spare herself a glance in the mirror as she shimmies into the sparkling, skin-tight dress that had been bought a few weeks ago. It hugs her curves, accentuating what she usually believes she lacks, leaving her to worry the seams might bust with each sway of her hips. They hold strong though, allowing her to let the beat reverberate through her very core as the singer growls lyrics of love and loss into the audience's ears.

Pandemonium is centralized around women who embody the entirety of a song, personifying each genre through clothing, makeup, and attitude. The music is the heartbeat of the dance, the very breath of the girl who swings her hips beneath the blinding lights.

Clary's genre is rock.

Never before had she been a fan of rock, but Angel, if she doesn't love the way she looks with heavy eyeliner, crimson lips, and wild curls. It's so liberating to appear so feral in a world where everyone has to physically look down upon her. Rock rattles her bones, releases the cages everyone puts her in. Rock doesn't define her the way her friends do, doesn't expect her to be anything she's not. It pumps the blood through her veins, giving her the strength to finally be everything she ever wanted to be. Confident…independent…sexy—Clary Fray has never been any of these things, but Indecent Inferno is all this and more.

The girl on the set before her emerges from the velvet curtains, counting dollar bills as she pulls them from her brassier. Her cowboy boots and denim skirt accompany the dying twang of country music as Clary is waved forward into the dimming lights. With a breath to steel her nerves, she plunges through the curtain before any second thoughts can paralyze her.

The music envelops her like a warm embrace, guiding her to the center of the stage as a spotlight lands on her. She swings her leg around the pole, twisting expertly so she's upside down with her chest nearly pressed against her face. Had her breasts been any larger, she might have been suffocating, but instead she is beaming, letting compliments and insults alike wash over her like rocks in a raging river. She loves being in control, commanding her body to follow her orders, propelling it forward, pushing it to the edge, seeking nothing but perfection.

Her mind wages a constant war between loving and hating this job, between quitting it all and taking it on fulltime. It's stressful to strive for nothing but the best, to pass the limits, to overcome the shyness inside. But freedom is a fleeting feeling these days, and here is the only place she truly feels it.

She shakes her hips to the pulsing music, singing herself around and around while maintaining her animalistic expression to draw out the primal instincts of this men, to have them begging for more when the lights go down and she slips into the darkness. She shreds her clothing piece by piece until she's dressed in lingerie and high-heels, preparing for her big finale.

There's a scuffle at the front of the stage, someone falling against it. A stream of blood trickles down his face, obscuring the hostility written across his features. She only has enough time to catch the other boy's smirk before he smashes his fist against the bloodied one once more.

"Jonathon!" she yells as the lights die out, security rushing to the scene. Fuming, she exits the stage, waving the pop girl on without a word. She catches them trying to throw Jonathon out the back, the boy pitifully holding the door jam. She waves the bigger men away, watching in silence as they obey without question. The strippers are basically royalty here.

She seethes for a moment, pleased to watch Jonathon squirm under her intense glare. "What. The actual. Fuck," she growls finally, fisting her brother's shirt and yanking him down to her level. She never lets her size hinder her in a fight—certainly not while she's sparring with her six-foot-two-inch, lean-muscled, older brother.

"I can't believe you fucking _stripped _to my song," he gags, a look of unmasked disgust on his face. Clary smacks him upside the head, knocking his disguise (a black beanie, how original) askew.

"You don't even sing vocals in that one, Jon," she counters, eyes narrowed, but Jon makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"You were taking off your clothes to my guitar riffs." He throws his arms up, his voice cracking under the strain of wanting to yell. "I saw things that I should _never_ have seen."

"Then why are you here?!" she screams, mumbling an apology for startling the people around her.

"Because Seb mentioned you had a new job, and I thought I'd check it out. Maybe leave you a nice tip." Clary makes a face. "Ew, no, I'm not tipping you now. I had no Idea you were working at a fucking strip joint."

"Well, this is my new job." She crosses her arms as Jonathon shakes his head.

"Absolutely not." Clary glowers, ready to kick him in the shins.

"What?"

"I am in a famous band, Clarissa!" She grabs him by the ear, pulling him into an alcove so that nobody can catch a look at his face.

"You can't go around shouting that, Jon! It will—" He doesn't stop speaking.

"No sister of mine is taking off her clothes to earn money when I can so easily offer her a job with an actual dress code."

"We have a dress code. It's called _Sexy_." It's Jonathon's turn to make a face, his skin appearing a little green in the low lighting.

"First of all, puke, and second of all, what part of stripping down to nearly nothing in front of balding, middle-aged, _married_ men makes you feel sexy?" Clary opens her mouth, but Jonathon quickly presses his hand over it. "On second thought, please don't answer that." She huffs but says nothing as Jonathon removes his hand.

"Why did you punch a stranger anyway?" She should at least give him a chance to tell his story.

"He told me the things he dreamed of doing to a woman like you, and I was all like, 'That's my sister!' and went full hero and gave him a broken nose." Clary snorts.

"A fist to the face of a paying customer is what you call _full hero_?" Jonathon shrugs her off. "You didn't actually tell him you were watching your sister strip, did you?" Jonathon merely blinks.

"Look, Clary…come dance in the bands' music videos, come sing some backup vocals. It'll be a steady job with good pay. You can even dance in your underwear," he adds reluctantly at her scowl.

"It's _not_ about dancing in my underwear, Jon! It's about making my own way, earning my own income." Jonathon growls in the back of his throat, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not all of us run to daddy in our time of need."

"Don't you see, though? This is exactly what dad _wanted_! He wanted you to feel worthless. To feel like you had no choice but to leave your family and turn to a life of…of….Indecency!"

"I'm not a fucking prostitute, you know." Her angry statements are diminished by her refusal to yell and draw unwanted glances. "I have respect for myself—"

Jon snorts. "Not very much apparently." She gnashes her teeth together, eyes narrowed as she pulls her sweatshirt and sweatpants securely over her costume.

"Out." Her finger points in the direction of the door, her eyes never leaving his. She glowers when he doesn't even shift his weight. "You don't get to come here after months of ignoring me. You don't get to act like you own me." She wets her lips, shaking with all the pent up anger. "_I _wasn't the one that left this family. Leaving is a trait reserved for Morgenstern _men_." She's pressing her finger into his chest, backing him up until he's shrinking against the wall. "I've said it a million times before, and I'll say it as many times as it takes to get it through you thick skull. I. Don't. Need. You." She makes each word a sentence, hiding the shock she feels at her own words. Jonathon used to _always_ be the first one there for her, the one to care for her during the fights, during the anguish and loss.

She sees it in his dark eyes, the ones that are soulless pits in her father's face, but filled with so much raw emotion in the man before her. She can see straight to his soul, watching it shattering with each word that rolls of her tongue.

But he hardens his emotions quickly, another Morgenstern trait—one that she, too, had acquired.

He shoots her a glare before slamming the door behind him. He is not the same man she once knew.

* * *

_The song is _Scars _by Papa Roach, and I definitely do NOT own it!_

_Review?_

_All My Love,_

_BallinBlonde21_


	5. Songs Never Sung

_Update! Enjoy!_

* * *

**American Thighs**

Chapter 4: Songs Never Sung

* * *

Clary groaned as Isabelle yanked a brush through her curls, following it with the heat of a curling iron. Unlike Jace and Clary, Isabelle stayed in touch when she became a part of the New York's elite. Her beauty skyrocketing her to fame as a model.

"Can I please take a snapchat of your curls?" Isabelle giggled, holding the cellphone in front of Clary's face to capture her frizzy curls.

"It's not like I could stop you," the redhead grumbled, crossing her arms as Isabelle tapped a message with the picture. Millions of people had seen Clary in the worst lighting with the most embarrassing faces thanks to Isabelle's record number of Snapchat friends and Instagram followers.

"Nope." She popped the _p _as the set her phone down and continued to use her instruments of torture on Clary's hair. Clary had to admit it always felt nice when Isabelle took time out of her busy schedule to visit, the only person in her life that didn't let fame end their relationship.

Hence why Clary had succumbed to Isabelle's lengthy primping routine this Friday afternoon, listening to her old Fall Out Boy CD on repeat.

"We're the new face of failure," Clary belted out, earning a giggle from Isabelle as she joined in. "Prettier and younger but not any better off."

Clary leapt from the chair as Isabelle brought the hairbrush to her lips to belt it out. "Bulletproof loneliness—"

"You know," Clary said into the camera as Isabelle brought it out to film them, "this song made Isabelle want to marry a lawyer, so all you eligible bachelors might want to apply for Harvard's law school."

"Clary!" Isabelle could be heard crying in dismay as the video ended, making the girl in question erupt in giggles. "I can't believe you shared my secrets with the world!"

"Well, you don't have to post it." Isabelle cracked a grin.

"Of course, I have to. It's gold." Clary wondered how long her friend's story was going to be after today. "Speaking of gold," Isabelle began, leveling her gaze on Clary in the mirror, "Jace's auditions are today—"

"No," Clay's reddened lips stated firmly before Isabelle could even hope to continue.

"But—"

"No, _but_'s, Izzy. He didn't even tell me he was back! I had to find out from _Kelly and Michael_."

"He kept those underwear," she said offhandedly, waggling her eyebrows.

"That's not the point I'm trying to—wait, the Michael Strahan underwear?" Isabelle nodded. "Does he wear them?" A shrug followed by a devious grin. "No, no, I'm getting off topic—"

"He's got the best abs," she added dreamily, showing Clary a picture of Jace in the offending underwear.

"Still not the point I'm—Izzy, Jace is your brother!" Isabelle waved one hand in the air, her thumb still scrolling on the screen of her phone as she reached for the mascara.

"Not technically. We weren't even born in the same country." Clary pressed her lips into a thin line, dodging Isabelle's distracted and armed hands.

"Maybe next time you'll want to open with the fact that he's adopted. Just a suggestion." Isabelle waved the wand in her fingers around, nodding thoughtfully as if to say it was a good idea. Clary sighed, snatching the makeup and sweeping it onto her eyelashes herself. "He didn't change a bit," Clary breathed, remembering the lighthearted moments of his childhood.

Isabelle nodded combing her fingers through her glossy hair. "When's the last time you talked to him, anyway?"

Clary just shrugged.

"Maybe the Christmas after he left," she pretended to contemplate, tapping an unpolished finger against her chin as she thought. "I don't know."

It was a blatant lie. She'd called Jace every day for a year after he'd vanished. Sometimes, his old manager responded, telling her to stay away, that what she had to tell him would just hold him back, that she was useless to him. Jace never answered.

Her hands rose, flustered. She'd always been close to Jace, which was saying something since he was a hard person to get close to. He barely talked about his past in London, only tidbits of slipped information here or there. He didn't talk about his parents' passing or the foster homes he grew up in. Yet Clary managed to find a way through the brick walls to his heart.

She tried not to let it hurt when he didn't visit or call, especially when he was in the United States. "You should try out for the show," Isabelle muttered again, reminding Clary why there was anger bubbling in her stomach. She couldn't lie to herself by saying she didn't want to join when she first saw his face on the television. She'd been playing her guitar and singing at hole-in-the-wall bars, earning tips on the nights she didn't work, but there was no way in hell she was good enough to tour.

"I don't think I'm allowed to." Isabelle scoffed.

"Why not?" Clary shook her straightened hair, resting her hands on the vanity.

"Because I _know_ the rockstar."

"So? I know the rockstar, too, and I might still try out."

"You can't carry a tune." Isabelle's hand fluttered to her chest.

"How you wound me!" The girls shared a laugh. "Look, you don't have to go farther than the auditions, but I know you'll hate yourself if don't even try." Clary sighed, hating how Isabelle was always right. Isabelle, knowing Clary better than she knew herself, could see her conceding and clapped her hands.

Before she could squeal, Clary interjected. "I'll think about it, okay?"

Isabelle smiled wickedly. "You don't have much time. The auditions are in three hours, and I've already signed you up." Clary glowered, but Isabelle was unfazed. "I'm going to pick an outfit for you!" Clary dropped her head onto the countertop with a loud smack. Fighting back the memories surfacing behind her eyes.

Of course this makeover was one of Isabelle's schemes to infiltrate Clary's love life. They always were. Groaning, she opened her laptop and searched for a song to sing.

X.O.X.O.X

"I hate that you talked me into this," Clary growled, yanking up the leather boots Isabelle had forced upon her feet, stuffing the toes with tissue so they didn't wiggle around so much.

"You would have always wondered, babe," she replied, open-mouthed as she applied mascara in her compact mirror. "Besides, when you're famous we can be like Taylor Swift and Karlie Kloss."

"I don't do pop." Isabelle chuckled, snapping the compact shut and stuffing it into her purse as the Lincoln Towncar arrived at the Javits Convention Center. She was thankful she didn't have to drive the beat-up Cavalier that was a graduation present from the Lightwoods, not caring to relive the memories that accompanied its stained cloth seats and torn floor mats.

Pulling up to the front, a crowd parted to allow the sleek black automobile room to pass. Thousands of people milled about, taking pictures, coloring signs, and disappearing into the stacked glass cubes that reflected the New York skyline.

"Selife!" Isabelle bellowed, turning them around so the building was angled perfectly in the background. Clary tried to smile, her mouth running dry as the reality of the situation hit her. She was going to see Jace. She was going to sing for Jace. She was going to pass out. "Okay, so we're just going to check you in, and then wait." Clary nodded, straightening the high-waisted black leather shorts Isabelle had all but yanked up Clary's legs.

She stumbled after the model, her short legs unaccustomed to Izzy's beautiful lank. They wove in and out of crowds as they disappeared into the masses congregating in Hall E, the chatter a loud hum, no words decipherable above the roar of a million voices. Everyone was here for a chance, a shot at fame. Clary was here breaking, wondering why she'd given in to Isabelle's insane logic.

"Clary Morgenstern," Izzy was telling a gray-haired woman seated before a laptop, grabbing a few papers and Clary's contestant number before squealing her way to an empty bench. "Put this on," she commanded, but immediately took it away when Clary attempted to press it to the sheer white blouse. "On second thought, you don't really need it. Jace will know who you are." Clary glowered. She was kind of hoping he didn't recognize her and think she was desperate.

"Okay, so this is kind of Fox's rip on _The Voice_. There are four judges," she began explaining, ticking things off on her fingers. "Their chairs will all be facing backwards, but them turning around has nothing to do with you moving on. After the allotted amount of time, one chair will turn, then the next, and so on."

"The first to turn will be Magnus Bane, the stylist. He will judge your appearance, make sure you have _the look_." Isabelle shrugged. "Don't worry about that. You look great." Clary fingered one of the black extensions clipped into her hair. "Second will be Maia Roberts. She's judging your persona, your stage presence. She wants to make sure you not only atheistically compliment Jace, but socially compliment him as well."

"The third one is the hardest," she whispered. Clary wondered if it was supposed to be a secret or if Izzy just wasn't trying to alarm her. "Jordan Kyle, Jace's manager. He's going to be listening for the sound. One sour note, and you're out."

"You know who's last. He has the final say. Always." She leaned back, plastering a smile on her face. "As long as they don't stop the music, you're golden—well blackened with some red and green mixed in—oh, you know what I mean." Upon seeing Clary's terrified expression, she'd begun rambling.

"What if he sees me and remembers why he abandoned me in the first place? You know how humiliating it would be not to make it past the auditions."

"You're a shoo-in. Even if Jace is blind to how amazing of a person you are, he can't miss how mesmerizing it is when you sing." Clary smiled lightly. "I'm serious, Clare. You'll be fantastic."

They heard her number being called over the loudspeaker. "Go get'em, Tiger." Clary didn't glance back, knowing Isabelle was performing some highly ridiculous cheerleading move behind her back.

Instead, she followed the directions to the interviewing room, waiting patiently on the designated _x_ for the camera to turn her way. "Alec?" she gasped as the interviewer's diamond-blue eyes met hers.

"Clary! Isabelle was hoping you'd come try out!" Clary shrugged.

"She basically gave me no choice."

"That sounds like Isabelle." They laughed gently, before a microphone appeared between them.

Clary sighed. "I'd appreciate if you didn't mention my history with you guys. Not yet, at least."

"Of course," Alec nodded solemnly, pushing shaggy black hair from his face, a hole in the sleeve of his sweater. Some things never changed.

A camera appeared from around the corner. "What do I say?" she asked stupidly after Alec had been blinking at her expectantly.

"Just the usual. Name, age, hometown. That stuff."

"Okay, I can do that." She tried desperately to tame the flush in her cheeks, but settled for bringing her mane around her shoulders to blend it all together. "I'm Clary. I'm twenty-four and from Brooklyn."

"Perfect," Alec beamed, turning the cameramen away from her. "You're up next, Buzz." He used her childhood nickname from when her older brother had hacked all her hair off and she ended up with a buzz-cut on her first day of kindergarten.

She breathed heavily, steeling her nerves as she stepped onto the stage.

Blinding white lights washed out her skin as she clacked across the empty stage, her freshly sharpened red nails wrapped around a microphone one of the stagehands had given her, clinging to it for dear life. She felt entirely naked in the rocker-themed outfit she'd been given. She bit one of her red lips, hoping it didn't transfer to her teeth.

"I hate you, Isabelle," she mumbled under her breath, eyeing the four backward-facing chairs. The rules were simple: Sing for the judges. If they don't stop the song, the contestant moves on. She cast a sidelong glance at Alec, who gave her a motivational nod, his smile glittering in the dim, backstage light. He was so much the nineteen-year-old boy she remembered before he'd flown off to UCLA, pursuing a degree in electrical engineering. His calming and friendly personality must have driven Jace to ask him to announce the contest. Or maybe he just missed his brother. She sure knew what that felt like.

She took another breath, sweeping her gaze across the filled room, all eyes on her, mouths silent as the music began playing.

_You made a mistake_

_On the day that you met me and lost your way_

_You saw all the signs but you let it go_

_You closed your eyes_

She stared at the back of his chair, his name printed in big black letters, the 'X' unlit above it. He didn't know it was her, didn't know she was standing right behind him, breaking all over again. She steeled her nerves, walking to face the crowd as she began to pour her soul into the song.

_I should've told you to leave_

_'Cause I knew all the time you couldn't handle me_

_But you're hard to resist_

_When you're on your knees begging me_

She closed her eyes, bringing her fist to her heart as she leaned forward, swaying with the music, fighting back the tears with her closed eyes. She couldn't do this, couldn't face him.

_I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally_

_Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me_

_I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy_

_'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel_

Her heart lurched as the first chair turned, the allotted amount of time passing for the stylist to see her, to see if she had the right look. Magnus Bane, as the back of his chair had said, was dressed head-to-toe in a forest green, velvet suit, topped off with a sparkling green top hat. She glanced away, knowing it was rude to stare, and ignored his peculiar cat-eyed gaze as she continued to sing, relieved that he didn't punch the button to stop the song.

_Hate being that wall_

_That you hit when you feel like you gave it all_

_I keep taking the blame_

_When we both know that I'll never change_

She fought back laughter at the swaying crowd, watching some attempt to sing the unfamiliar lyrics as others just moved with the music.

_I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally_

_Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me_

_I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy_

_'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel_

The second chair whirled around, Maia Roberts, the publicist and assistant. Clary tried to project humility, a polar opposite to Jace, who radiated arrogance. Maia's brown eyes were narrowed, curly chocolate tendrils escaping from the severe bun at the back of her head, framing her tanned face. Her plum claws scraped across the big red button but didn't apply any pressure.

_I wasn't always this way, I used to be the one with the halo_

_That disappeared when I had my first taste_

_And fell from grace, it left me in this place_

_Now I'm starting to think maybe you like it_

Jordan Kyle, the new manager, turned around with a smirk, only an echo of the kind that so often adorned Jace's face. His sandy-brown hair was shaggy, hazel eyes flirtatious as he straightened his tie. He was there for the sound, to find the perfect contrast between the opener and the headliner. His hand didn't even inch toward the button.

_I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally_

_Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me_

_I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy_

_'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel_

Clary couldn't look as time came for the final chair to spin, for her to meet those aged golden eyes that once were brimmed with endless comfort and security and now held infinite loneliness. So instead, she turned to the crowd, spreading one arm out wide as she moved her arms in time with them, singing for herself rather than the panel of judges. Her eyes slipped shut as she belted out the last lines, ears lost in the eruption of applause as she finished, her chin tucked against her chest as the music died. In that moment, she'd forgotten about Jace, forgotten about the crowd around her, forgotten about the television show. It was just her and her chest heaving up and down as the notes faded, just her and the strength growing inside her.

_I'm not an angel_

_I'm not an angel_

_I'm not an angel_

_I'm not an angel_

* * *

_Ugh, so close, yet, so far. The song is I'm Not an Angel by Halestorm!_

_All My Love,_

_BallinBlonde21_


	6. Shadows in the Darkness

_Life Update:::I've been really struggling lately. I don't like my job. One of my coworkers is targeting me and a few other women. I've been bullied before, but something about being harassed by a grown ass woman in a professional setting is debilitating. If you've been with me long enough, you know that I've fought my way back to a sense of normalcy and 'okayness' since the death of my friends in high school, and this toxic environment is sending me back to that dark, dark place. To top that off, a part of my childhood is coming back to haunt me. They always say, "write what you know," and if you've read my stories, you've seen some common themes, so I bet you can figure out what I'm talking about. I've just been exhausted and telling anyone how I'm feeling is like shouting into a void. Because they always say it will get better. They always explain away the sadness and the anger. They always make suggestions like you haven't tried a million things to get over it, to move forward. It's not a switch. It's not even a fucking dial. It's always there, just looming, waiting for your weakest moment to take over._

_But I keep telling myself that I'm strong. That I'm stronger than this sadness and that one day, I'll leave this job. I'll move forward in space and time to a place where women aren't targeting other women. To somewhere I am wanted and able to flourish._

_One day._

_But not today._

_So really, I want to thank you, my loyal and faithful readers, who have been with me through this story and so many others, including that of my life. If you've read this far, thank you for letting me vent, for not giving up on me, for being a source of motivation and happiness._

_I love you all._

_Please enjoy._

* * *

American Thighs

Chapter 5: Shadows in the Darkness

* * *

Jace watches with detached interest as another band shuffles from the white lights, broken guitar strings and dreams in their wake. He can't help but feel sympathetic for them, knowing what it's like to struggle for so long and have an opportunity wrenched from beneath their feet. Yet it's not enough to erase the scratchy, sharp notes their singer had been belting out for the past two minutes. So, Jace leans back in his chair, tapping his pen rhythmically against the wooden table and forgetting what the group looked like before they'd even disappeared behind the curtains. "Tell me again why I have to be here, J," he drawls, allowing his British accent to seep deeply into his words. Spending eight years in the United States had certainly thinned it, but years spent in his home country rejuvenated it.

Jordan, his manager—or micromanager, as Jace preferred to call him—cleared his throat, embarrassed at how loudly the rockstar had spoken his annoyance. Several of the performers had turned their attention to the international idol, undoubtedly hoping to capture a video and report how much of a diva Jace can be. They wouldn't be wrong. His life is spent in this sort of impenetrable bubble, a front built of brick, mortar, and sarcasm. If the exterior of an egotistical, narcissistic bigot is unattractive enough, nobody seeks to be close to him, to know him on a deeper level than booze and sex. It works to his advantage, a sort of filtration system that weeds out anyone who seeks to hurt him or could be hurt by him. So far, few have slipped between the cracks.

"The winner will be the opening act for your upcoming tour, so you might as well like them," Jordan responds, straightening his already impeccable tie, a nervous tick he'd developed over years of working with Jace. The rockstar huffs, his breath blowing a few strands of golden hair from his forehead. He has no desire to bring anyone along on his next tour. He has no desire to be on tour at all, especially in America.

It was cruel, the way he'd treated his adoptive family after he'd moved to England. Most of his contact with them comprised of phone calls and text messages. He didn't visit, didn't invite them to visit. He severed as much as he could, though his selfishness kept him from disappearing completely. He loves the Lightwoods dearly, almost as much as if they are his blood family, but he didn't want them to be associated with the pitiful fuckup this life had turned him in to. Didn't want them to be around when he inevitably turned into his father.

This all went to shit when Jordan scheduled an entire tour without Jace's knowledge, explaining calmly to Jace's red face and narrowed eyes that he needed a comeback, needed to show his fans he was willing to work on himself to become the man they needed him to be.

But what about the man Jace needs himself to be?

His family welcomed him with opened arms, no questions asked about his Harry Houdini act or about his illegal escapades they'd certainly read about in newspapers and magazines. He knew the others wouldn't respond so kindly, selfishly choosing to avoid that kind of pain and live in the agony of never knowing.

With a warning glance in Jace's direction, Jordan motions for Alec to retrieve the next act, quickly followed by the scuffling of feet as stagehands situate lights and cameras toward the judges. Well, as much as the ragtag team of Jordan, Jace, Magnus, and Maia count for judges.

Their chair whirl around, and Jace drops his head against the backrest. Twenty-five acts have already poured their hearts and souls into end-all-be-all performances—none of which had been enough to qualify for the show. Los Angeles has started to seem pretty hopeless, since someone always buzzes them out before Jace even could. He'd been the deciding factor in the other locations, but here, in the Hollywood hills, Magnus can't find _the look_. Maia can't see _the attitude_. Jordan never hears _the sound_. It's all cosmetic, corporate America deciding who deserves fame and who does not. It's somewhat sickening. He scrubs a hand through his already tousled waves as high heels clack across the stage, stopping at what he presumes to be the center. All hope seems lost, so he continues drumming his fingers against his button, playing with fate as it dips down just a bit.

The speakers pump a rhythm unknown to him, but when the female's pained voice breathes the first few lines, he finds himself strapped to the hands of the clock, spiraling back through time until he's seated in his first car, cranking down the windows of that blue Cavalier to smell the rain on the pavement as small fingers reach out to turn up the radio's volume. A sea of red curls bobs along in the passenger seat, a melodious voice hitting every note.

In his peripherals, Jace can see Jordan smiling to himself, a face splitting grin that doesn't diminish as the music charges forward. He's not making any motion to stop the music like he'd done before. Maia appears perplexed, unable to judge stage presence with a turned chair, while Magnus seems confident that the woman will aesthetically please him. Jace knows she will. His hand hovers over his own button, the one that holds the power to stop the singing, to halt the onslaught of memories and the sense of overwhelming guilt.

_I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally_

_Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me_

_I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy_

_'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel_

Magnus's chair turns, and Jace can't help but throw a sideways glance in his direction, catching the excited expression shaded by his top hat as he moves with the song. His blackened fingernails rest daintily on his button, as they always do, but they lack the usual flex of when he prepares to press down.

He slips his index finger onto his button, chewing his lips in anticipation.

Maia turns. Full hand splayed across her own red button, eyes scrutinizing the woman putting on the show—she makes no move to stop the song.

His middle finger falls next to his pointer, the plastic giving a little, awaiting his commands. It doesn't go down, though.

Jordan doesn't even move toward his button, obviously enjoying himself as he dances in his chair, flashing winks at the stage. Jealousy flares through his chest like someone dropped a cigarette in the middle of a drought, his thumb mindlessly moving to join his other fingers. All he'd have to do is apply a small amount of pressure, just lower his hand ever so slightly to make this all end, to stop his world from crashing down around him.

_I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally_

_Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me_

_I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy_

_'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel_

Dizziness overcomes him as the chair twirls, not because of the motion but because of the blindingly beautiful woman pouring out her soul in front of these strangers.

He's a stranger to her now, he realizes with a start, drinking in every ounce of her he possibly can.

Her eyes are squeezed shut, her fist against her heart as her head falls, chest heaving with exertion as for once, silence overpowers noise. Her red curls are straightened, streaked with charcoal. Her pale skin is on display between the high hem of her shorts and the top of her boots, a black brassiere visible beneath her gauzy shirt.

He has to physically restrain himself from pulling his black t-shirt over her head. He doesn't want these people staring at her body, like she's a piece of meat. He'd spent the better part of his life ensuring she didn't succumb to the evils of a teenage boy.

And then he turned out to be that teenage boy.

When she looks up, her green eyes trailing across the cheering crowd, he sees her breaking all over again. Agonizingly slowly, she analyzes the judges, taking in Magnus's glitter, Maia's ferocity, and Jordan's exuberance. His hard exterior cracks a little when she skips him completely, choosing instead to make eye contact with Magnus.

"What's your name, doll?" Magnus asks, his bedazzled pen poised over the contestant sheet. "Choose wisely, buttercup. You only get one shot."

Her knuckles are white, clutching the microphone. _His_ microphone, he notices, honing in on the cursive _J_ written in gold. Though it's a sacred part of him, he can't find it in him to care as she brings it to her cherry red lips. "Clary Fray." Jordan grins at the easy way it rolls of the tongue, certainly a soon-to-be household name, but Jace's brows furrow. Why choose her mother's maiden name? Why not link herself to the Morgenstern dynasty?

"Brooklyn, I presume? You have the accent." Clary nods, flipping her curls over her shoulders to give a nicer view of her cleavage. Jace grips the edge of the table until his fingers turn numb. "And whose song were you singing?"

She scratches her scalp, flashing a crimson smile. "It was actually an original." Jordan gives an approving nod, shuffling his papers in front of him.

"And who are you wearing?" Magnus asks, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of fashion design.

"Um…Target?" His gleeful expression falters, swapping for one more closely representing disdain.

"Oh, no, no, no, we will have to change that," he mumbles, scribbling furiously against his notepad. Maia takes this opportunity to compliment her stage presence, admiring how she radiated strength despite her small stature. Jace has to agree, his eyes skimming the sparkle in hers, her flushed cheeks, and confident stance. She belongs up there.

He realizes he's been staring only when Jordan clears his throat. Shaking his head to organize his thoughts, he looks up, seeing Clary looking over him rather than at him. "Yeah, you were pretty good, but we'll see if you stand up to the competition. Next."

She gives no indication that his heartless statement had hurt her as she waves her goodbyes and struts from the stage.

While watching her sway her hips, his confidence is drained from him. Inside this stone-cold shell, he is crumbling.

X.O.X.O.X

"This is just what you need, bro. Trust me," Jordan encourages, clapping Jace on the back as the pulsating lights hit his eyes. After the pitiful day of auditions, Jordan had searched for the hottest strip club in New York. Two hours and change later, they group of men pull up to the bar at Pandemonium, the lights painting their hair and skin blue as they disperse into the crowd.  
"Two whiskeys," Jace hears Jordan order for him, feeling the glass slip into his palm almost immediately. It's a familiar fit, the half curl of his palm to hold the cool crystal within. He swirls the amber liquid, watching a small whirlpool form in the center. He'd promised Maia no alcohol in the United States. He'd promised his mom he'd clean up his act. He'd promised Clary he'd never hurt her, that he'd always be there for her.

He tosses back the booze in one gulp.

He's always been good at breaking promises.

They're escorted to a VIP section just to the left of the state, offering a good view of both the women on the poles and those dancing to the sides. He has no interest in watching them strip, though, as he gets enough of that without spending hundreds of dollars. Instead, he busies himself with studying those around him.

The men all have the same, awed expressions on their faces, the same disgusting hopefulness in their eyes. He takes on residual embarrassment every time one has their advances declined with either an entertainer or waitress. He wants to snatch the wrinkly dollar bills before they can get their middle-aged hands into a twenty-something woman's pants. His fists, on the other hand, are stuffed full with slips of paper and scribble phone numbers from several girls whose faces he can't even say he remembers. He dumps them onto the floor, priding himself when they all land in a little pile.

He soon becomes disinterested with even this, seeing that every man here acts so similarly to the rest. "I need a refill," he whispers to Jordan, who doesn't seem to hear him as a woman in cowgirl boots and a mini skirt winks in their general direction. Sighing, Jace ditches his manager and weaves through the growing crowd, seemingly unnoticed with the Yankees cap pulled low over his golden curls.

Jordan often chided him for his beloved cap, the one with the rip in the bill and the ketchup stain on the left side. He claimed it ruins his carefully maintained rocker image, his bad-boy ego. He tugs on it a little, a smile pulling at his face when he remembers clutching Clary's hand in excitement, pulling her too quickly through the stadium to reach their seats. He can hear her peal of laugher when her hotdog squirted ketchup from the end of the bun and coated his left side. No matter that the stitches are unravelling and the blue color had faded to gray, he will never part with this baseball hat or with the memories he had in it.

He'd reached the bar and is leaning against it as he waits for his drink. He drums his fingers along the enamel, and he hears the music shift, a heavier beat reverberating through the room and sinking into the marrow of his bones. His own, haunting voice fills the air as a shadowed figure shimmies out from the back.

_In this life, I'm me just sitting here alone_

_And by the way I tried to say I'd be there for you_

_Walk beside an emptiness that leads me by my hands_

_And throw away what I don't understand as a man._

The woman's silhouette dances in the darkness, all curves and curls as Jace watches, a bit aroused as she works against the pole to his lyrics. It's not one of his favorite songs, one that Jordan had made him record for his earlier albums, but it had become surprisingly popular with his fans, a staple in his shows.

_Love-Hate-Sex-Pain_

_It's complicating me sometimes._

_This Love-Hate-Sex-Pain_

_Its underestimated lies._

The woman's slim hips gyrate in the low light, his voice setting a definite tempo to which she moves, the lights coming up as she tangles her fingers into her thick curls, eyelids drooping lowly in lust, mouth falling open in pure pleasure.

He fails to hide his shock when the hair turns red and eyes green, revealing a body more familiar to him than his own. He finds himself falling through time, transported back to before he'd left, when he'd had his life perfectly planned with the girl dancing before him.

_"Open the fucking door, Jace," she cursed, crossing her hands over her chest to rub desperately at her arms. His fingers shook in the frosty air as he struggled to jam the key into the lock, his teeth chattering loudly behind his blue lips._

_They'd spent the day rolling around in the snow, taking advantage of the small backyard they shared to create an army of snow people. Clary insisting on naming each of them, only to destroy them in a hilarious fit of rage after a branch substituting as an arm scraped along her cheek, drawing a drop of blood from her pink skin. "BLOOD HAS BEEN SHED!" she'd cried dramatically, knocking head after head onto the snow-covered ground._

_He pushed through the door finally, a rush of heat flooding at them as they hurried into the house. Isabelle had feigned a headache to avoid the chilled air, insisting Maryse take her shopping for when school started up again in a week. Maryse, ever the doting mother, immediately agreed, grabbing her keys and kissing Jace's head, muttering something about behaving before she disappeared. Alec, being three years older than Jace, had already returned to LSU, preferring the Louisiana heat to the bitter Brooklyn winters. Robert had also flown across country to California on a business trip, leaving the house vacant and dim in the dying light of day. _

"_Go warm up," he instructed Clary as she shed her outer layers, leaving them in a pile at the front door with his. "I'll make us some cocoa," he added at the sound of her clacking teeth filling the silent hallways. She nodded, ambling up the stairs to his bedroom, undoubtedly diving beneath his covers to keep warm._

_He smiled quietly to himself, biting his lip as he thought back to a few weeks ago, when the air was still warm enough to leave without a coat, when he'd slipped into her room to calm her after a nightmare. He mixed the chocolate powder into the mugs of hot milk, carrying one in each fist as he ascended the staircase. _

She'd been standing there, he recalls as he opens the door in his mind, nearly dropping the boiling drinks all over himself. Her sopping clothes were pooled at her feet, endless creamy skin on display for him. He'd pushed her curls behind her ear, removing the veil she often hid behind.

He'd thrust his fingers into her hair and pushed her against the wall in one motion, his nose skimming along the line of her chapped lips, followed by his tongue. Their skin was still cold from the winter weather, but a fire was igniting wherever they touched.

He pulls himself from the memories then, acutely aware of the excited state it's putting him in. His eyes land on the stage, seeing the same girl dressed in skimpy black lingerie, bearing herself to sick strangers for a couple bucks.

His growl is low, but loud enough that a few people shoot startled glances in his direction. Ignoring the trailing eyes, he slides past the VIP section unnoticed by Jordan, pushing through a heavy door labeled for the staff and planting himself on a velvet sofa.

The back is empty, and with a quick glance at his watch, he knew why. Clary's the last act, the most prized performer. The thought makes his stomach churn.

He spends the remainder of the song counting the seconds until it would end, very familiar with the length. He couldn't even hum along to the words, hating the sound of his own voice coming out the speakers. The song seems endless as his mind wanders to those creepy men watching her hips move like that, staring as she strips layer by layer until she's topless and exposed before them.

His dick twitches insultingly as he imagines the way her pert breasts fit into his palms, the way her nipples pebble from the smallest brush of his thumb, the way she mewls when he takes on into his mouth—

"Jace?!" Clary cries, her arms thrust across her chest to hide her obvious nudity. Jace snorts inwardly at her _modesty_, as if she hadn't just been pole dancing in front of hundreds of me.

He trains his features into a look of indifference, reaching out to play with a high heel that had been discarded on the floor. "You have an interesting taste in music," he muses, poking at the tip of the heel with his finger. Her nose wrinkles as she glowers.

"I didn't get to pick the song." Jace rolls his eyes, seeing her drop her arms after a moment, still comfortable around him after all these years.

If only she knew the effect she still has on him, how he wants to press her against the wall every time she walks into a room, how he wants brush the makeup on the vanity aside and take her right there, how he wants to use his own back as a shield while she rests in the safety of his arms.

He finally meets her ferocious eyes, seeing the anger radiating from her flushed skin. He wants to wrap her up in an embrace, to tell her she no longer has to remove her clothes to make money, that he'll protect her just like he said he always would.

"Why are you here?" she spits bitterly, venom in her voice as she ties the belt of her coat. She hadn't even put on a bra.

Jace is having a difficult time breathing.

He's uncomfortable, not in control of this situation, so he does what he always does.

"I just fucked the girl in the cowboy boots. Can't for the life of me remember her name, though." He becomes an asshole.

He catches an imperceptible quivering of her lip before a gate of steel crashes down and emotionlessness takes over. "Well," she begins, her voice even and flat, "just clean off the damned couch." With that, she steals form the room, once again, leaving him to regret everything he's ever said.

* * *

_All my love,_

_~BallinBlonde21_


	7. Recurring Nightmare

_Please excuse any mistakes, I didn't edit this. I am very tired and wanted to post before I went to bed! Please enjoy!_

* * *

**American Thighs**

**Chapter 6: Recurring Nightmare**

Trigger Warning: Suicide Attempt

* * *

Clary slipped into Isabelle's apartment, thankful her best friend had given her a key. It was just past two in the morning, and she found the beauty asleep in the middle of her Temperapedic mattress, her glossy black hair contained in two long braids.

Clary felt bad waking her up, but slipped beneath the covers anyway, snuggling into her friend's side as she stirred. "Unnnghhh?" she grumbled as she stretched, slipping the purple eye mask onto her forehead. "Clary?" she asked a bit more coherently as she dragged her arm across her mouth. "Thank, God. I thought you were some one night stand who'd returned to cuddle."

Clary made a face. "Did you have sex in this bed tonight?" Isabelle smirked.

"I'm too kinky to have sex in a bed."

"Hot damn, Isabelle. Dial it back a bit." Izzy merely shrugged, settling back against the pillows and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

"What brings you to my humble abode at this—"  
"Jace saw me stripping to his song," she interrupted, focusing her eyes on the center of the ceiling fan as it twirled around.

"Shut up." Clary shook her head, wishing it was merely a bad dream. The bed jostled as Isabelle shot up, slipping directly into Clary's line of vision. "What did he say?"

Clary bit her lip, fighting back the tears. Isabelle knew that Clary loved Jace, not that she'd been—and still was—_in love_ with Jace. "That he'd just fucked a stripper."

"What a jackass." Clary just shrugged but was thankful her friend was able to wade through the bullshit and wrapped an arm around her.

"It was just awkward." She felt Izzy's fingers toying with the ends of her curls, murmuring something she couldn't hear. "What?"

She cleared her throat a bit. "I was just saying that it couldn't have been too awkward since he's seen it all before." Clary jerked back from her friend's touch, blushing fiercly.

"You _knew_?!" Isabelle laughed light.

"Of _course _I knew! You're my best friend, and he's my brother! It was wayyyy too obvious when the sexual tension suddenly disappeared from the room."

Clary bit her lip, lost in the memories playing like a movie in the back of her mind.

_ She sat up, her hair like wild flames whipping around her face as she quickly took in her surroundings. She heaved a sigh, her head falling against the headboard with a soft thud. _

_ She'd been having a reoccurring nightmare for the past week, all revolving around her parent's divorce, around her father's drug-induced exit, his fingers biting into her skin as he attempted to drag her out with him, Jonathon following numbly as Clary struggled to get free. _

_ "What are you doing here?" she asked reflexively, stiffening as the sound of the secret door connecting her and Jace's bedrooms opened. His figure was shadowed as he stood to his full six-foot-one height. Normally, a sixteen-year-old girl would be terrified of a tall, dark man looming in the corner of her room, but Clary only felt comfort, security._

_ "You left your window open. I heard you scream." It was a simple explanation as the bed jostled with his weight, his warm arms enveloping her still shaking frame. "Same dream?" he inquired softly, resting his chin in her curls. She nodded mutely, her fingers clutching the soft fabric of his t-shirt, her eyes screwed shut to hold back the tears._

_ "I'm sorry, Jace. You must think I'm ridiculous." Jace shushed her softly as she moved to pull away, instead holding her closer and settling them on the bed._

_ "Losing a parent is hell, whether to death or divorce. It's normal to feel this way." His breath displaced her curls, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. His past no longer pained him._

_ He didn't talk about his parents' death, didn't revisit their London home, didn't keep any pictures of them. And she didn't pressure him to talk about it. He'd broken his walls a few times to talk about the abuse he'd suffered in foster homes, to tell her he'd watched his mother die, to let her kiss his scars that he thought were ugly, weak. But she never pushed the subject._

_ "I just feel so ridiculous," she whispered through her silent tears, her body curling closer to his as he tightened their embrace. He offered no words as he ran his fingers up her back, feather-light touches against her skin. _

_ She felt her sadness ebbing away, replaced with something more, something equivalent to a fire racing through her veins. She found her breathing becoming labored, her skin heated. "Jace?" she inquired, craning her neck to meet his eyes. _

_ "Mmm?" was his reply as his molten irises found hers, his thumb maneuvering between them to wipe a tearstain from her cheek. _

_ "Is anyone awake in your house?" His eyes darkened immediately as he shook his head, taking on that hooded expression that always accompanied their secret meetings. Her face inched closer to his, his arms loosening only to pull their faces together, their lips molding into one another._

_ One of his hands tangled into her hair while the other rubbed circles against her back, his tongue darting out to trace her lips. She pushed herself against him, her hardened nipples pressing through the fabric of his shirt and into his chest._

_ Suddenly they were wearing too many layers._

_ Her hands were shaking as she reached for the hem of his t-shirt, thankful when he aided in pulling it over his head, casting it aside without a second thought._

_ Initially, he'd been self-conscious around her, tentative to let her feel his skin, terrified of what she might think of the scars. She'd often had to coax him out of his shirt, run her fingers across the hard planes of his chest without lingering too much on one spot._

_ Now, she could skim her fingers up his abs, loving how they clenched beneath her touch. She could rest her palm over her name across his heart, kiss the thrumming skin lightly as his lips fell to her neck._

_ She moaned, dropping her head back to give him access to the creamy skin of her throat. She let him push the camisole to just underneath her breasts, his warm hands hovering in a silent question. Her heart was hammering as she pulled it over her head, her pebbled nipples enveloped by his big hands as he kissed her heavily on the mouth._

_ Her gasp was caught on his tongue as he tweaked her breasts just right, and she felt him smirking. She pushed herself up at him, her thin underwear against his boxers, his excitement evident. "Clary," he growled, his voice strained as his hooded eyes looked down at her. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you." _

_ She brought her fingers up to his face, smoothing out the worried lines on his forehead. They'd talked about it plenty of times before, progressed to when they were both naked, panting and ready before she freaked out and said she couldn't go through with it. He'd respected her each time, quickly pulling his clothes back on and kissing her forehead as she drifted to sleep._

_ Now, though, something was different. She didn't feel scared or anxious. She felt empowered, decided. "I want this, Jace. I'm ready." His eyes flickered across her face for a moment, searching for any sign of doubt before his mouth latched on to one of her breasts, his fingers dragging her panties down at an agonizingly slow pace. "I love you," she whispered into the darkness, her lips seeking his._

_ "I love you, too, Clarissa Morgenstern," he answered breathily, his nose sliding between her breasts, his lips dragging lightly between her hip bones. "I love you so damn much." Their eyes connected before his tongue darted out to taste her, simultaneous moans filling the room as Clary's head fell back against the pillows._

_ Jace flattened his tongue along her slit, moving at a slow, rhythmic pace. She whimpered beneath him, bucking her hips into his face to get more friction, trying to pull her thighs together to relieve the aching in her core._

_ Jace laughed, his cool breath fanning over her hot center in a way that made her fist the sheets. He held her thighs apart as his tongue dipped inside her. "Jace," she breathed, weaving her fingers into his golden curls in an attempt to pull him up to her. Her insides turned to mush when he rose from between her legs, a small smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. "Jace, I need you."_

_ He crawled up her body, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before she pulled their lips together. She could taste herself on him, and she heard a low rumble in the back of his throat. She could tell he was conflicted, both lust and worry flashing in his beautiful golden orbs. "You know I'm not a virgin, right?" Clary nodded, unconcerned. They'd had these conversations plenty of times, mostly her telling him that she didn't care and him apologizing for not waiting._

_ "Please, Jace," was all she said now as she grinded their hips together, her eyes fluttering shut at the sensations washing over her. He captured her lips, removing his boxers with one hand as he reached into the drawer of her bedside table, where he'd stashed condoms for when the time was right._

_ "You're sure, baby?" His face hovered over her, open and unclouded with desire as he ensured she was completely comfortable. _

_ "I love you, Jace," she breathed, opening the condom and rolling it onto him herself, knowing nothing would progress so long as Jace kept asking her how she felt._

_ She felt something in him snap then, his arm slipping beneath her back to position her right where he wanted, his member teasing her entrance as she hooked her heels around his back. "I'll be gentle." He kissed every inch of her skin he could reach as he began to move forward, searing pain ripping through her body. _

_ He stopped as she gasped, a single tear slipping from her cheek. "We can stop any time. Do you want to stop?" She shook her head, lifting her hips so he was buried deeper inside of her, ignoring the pain she felt as she pushed him through her barrier, aroused by his groan at being completely enveloped in her walls. "Tell me when to move." She waited until the pain dulled, bringing their lips together and opening her mouth to his probing tongue to tell him he could move._

_ He did. Slowly, at first, but soon, her pain shifted to pleasure, and she found herself prompting him to go faster, to go deeper. She could barely hear the mattress squeaking over the roaring in her ears as Jace's lips found purchase on her neck, one hand dipping between their connected bodies to circle the sensitive nub at the apex of her legs._

_ "Jace!" she cried softly, panic flooding her voice. "No, don't stop!" she nearly yelled when his motions slowed. He smirked knowingly then, increasing the speed of his ministrations until her walls were clamping around him, his own orgasm following hers as he collapsed on top of her, their sweaty chests heaving into one another. _

_ They were both spent, but Jace found it in him to rise and slip into the adjoining bathroom, returning seconds later without the condom and with a warm rag. "Here," he breathed tenderly, settling the warm cloth between her legs. "You're going to be sore." He looked almost ashamed at himself as he kneeled at the edge of her bed. She kissed him, hoping it dispersed his worries._

_ "Can you stay with me? The dreams never come when you're around." He nodded quickly, climbing into the bed beside her and settling the covers around them both. "I love you, Jace."_

_"I love you, too."_

X.O.X.O.X

The light made his head pound as he rose from where he'd passed out on the couch, the television still playing quietly in the background as he sought a bottle of Gatorade. The news didn't seem particularly interest in him that morning, so he concluded he hadn't made a complete ass of himself after ditching Jordan at the strip club and bouncing from bar to scummy bar.

He smelled like liquor, the sickening taste of stale booze on his tongue as he gulped the red drink greedily, gulping a few aspirin with it. His joints ached, his neck having a kink in it from sleeping on his mom's fancy leather sofa.

He couldn't get the image of her out of his head, the way her hips gyrated to the pace his own voice had set, the way her hooded eyes dripped sex appeal as they slid slowly across the crowd, the way her curls seemed to be set aflame by the burning stage lights.

And he hated it.

He'd wanted to yank her from the view of every horny man in sight, to cover her with his own t-shirt and chauffer her to his house. He didn't want her to think that was the only way she could make money, that her life had come to that all because of him. He wanted to go back and kill the idea of returning to London before it even took root in his brain. He wanted to prepare her for his departure. He wanted to bring her with.

Anything to change what he just saw—what everyone just saw.

He skimmed his fingers through his sweaty hair, sighing heavily as he dragged his sore body into the steamy shower, sickened by his own arousal.

He shouldn't objectify Clary like that. It was _Clary_. She deserved respect. She deserved someone who wanted her for more than her body, someone to put her needs before his own and love her unconditionally.

He knew he should let the hot water roll down his aching muscles, to relieve some tension in his back and calves as he washed away the shame of yesterday, but he cranked the dial to cold. A punishment for being so stupid, so weak. He shivered with gritted teeth as his manhood deflated unsatisfied. It was the least he could do for the girl he still loved.

"Shit," he cursed, realizing he'd finally allowed himself to admit it, even if it was in the privacy of his own thoughts. He was still undeniably and irrevocably in love with Clarissa Morgenstern. It was too bad he wasn't what she deserved.

He scrubbed the towel through his hair, wrapping it loosely on his hips before pushing through the door. "Fuck, Maia!" he shouted in shock as he ran into her on the other side. He was thankful he'd thought to brush his teeth before his shower, knowing Maia would be pissed if she could smell what he'd done last night.

"Well, at least buy me dinner first," she greeted, blushing slightly as she averted her gaze to the planner in her hand. He couldn't find an ounce of arrogance in his body, not even enough to smirk as he excused himself momentarily to slip on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt.

She ticked off his schedule for the day. A public appearance at the mall and lunch with Kaelie. Filming was to happen in between, though they only needed shots of him being stupid and doing funny things. Thankfully, both came naturally to him, hungover or not. He slipped on his jacket as Maia called for a car to be brought around.

X.O.X.O.X

"The barista keeps shooting you weird looks," Simon muttered as he stirred his coffee with the tip of his finger, a habit of his that made Clary a bit queasy. Didn't he know how many germs were on the human skin? _I'm checking the temperature_, he'd always respond at her disgust, and she'd just shake her head.

"Is there something on my face?" she responded flatly, dropping a few curls in front of her face to hide the blush on her cheeks. Ever since her audition for _Jace Race_ she's been getting noticed all around New York. She'd been the subject of many unflattering pictures, mostly selfies with teenage girls who were simply excited because she'd talked to Jace Herondale. Little did they know she'd done much more with said Herondale.

"Clary? Where'd you go?" Simon asked as she blinked and turned her attention away from the barista, who was currently fumbling as she made drinks. She scrubbed her hand down her face, hoping she'd put on enough concealer to hide the bags beneath her eyes.

"Just overwhelmed is all." Simon reached over and placed his hand on top of hers, a gesture that would make Sebastian's blood boil. "I should have never let Isabelle talk me into this." At that, Simon smiled.

"I must meet this illusive Isabelle who forced the most stubborn woman I know to do something she didn't want to." Clary narrowed her eyes at him.

"She's a famous model, Si. She's hardly 'illusive.'" Simon merely shrugged.

"Do I look like I keep up with fashion?" Clary had to crack a grin as she took in his ragged t-shirt that read _Please cancel my subscription to your issues_. He smiled and shook his head at her as he used his coffee stained finger to push his glasses up his nose.

She dropped her cheek to her hand, sipping lightly at her coffee. "I just have to tell Raphael I need to take some time off to pursue my singing career," she whispered, already dreading the conversation she'd planned for the night.

Simon's brow furrowed. "He's your friend. He should support your dreams and help you toward your goals." Clary snorted.

"Yeah, but in pushing me out of the nest to fly, he loses his most popular entertainment."

"Okay, first of all, ew, Clary. We promised to never speak of your job because it crosses so many lines of our friendship. Second of all, Sebastian shouldn't see you that way. He should see you as a person, not as a business venture."

She nodded, thumbing open her phone to check the time. "I've got to get back," she grumbled, remembering Jordan's email about daily trainings and filming. She quickly squeezed Simon, turning around and bumping into a firm chest. Surprisingly familiar tattooed hands reached out to right her before she could stumble backward.

"Jace," she greeted without enthusiasm as she glanced up to meet his gaze. She could see the turmoil in those golden eyes, a clear division between pain and arrogance that sometimes she only thought she could see. The media portrayed Jace as the most desired man in the world—handsome, funny, and joyful—yet in every picture she could see the sadness, the empty ache that had threatened to consume him his entire life. She'd once thought that she had filled that void, but now it was obvious she was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Rissa," he breathed, running an anxious hand through his hair as he returned his cellphone to his pocket. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Obviously," she hissed, but her chest panged with guilt instantly. Jace showed no emotional reaction to her harshness as he sidestepped her, nervously eyeing the poised cameras and accumulating crowd.

"There she is!" Jordan cried as she pushed through the door to the large conference room they were meeting in. All the tables and chairs had been removed, leaving an empty space with vaulted ceilings and thirty or so people milling about. She cringed inwardly as his arm slipped across her shoulders, directing her to the corner where people were beginning to gather. "We were worried you weren't going to show," he said as he released her, clapping his hand against his clipboard excitedly.

She chanced a glance toward the cameras, noting they were trained on her face. "Of course I was going to show. This is simply too great of an opportunity to pass up." She added a smile as Jordan nodded in approval, turning his attention toward another contestant breezing through the door. The tension in her shoulders released as she disappeared among the crowd.

"Hi, I'm Aline," a girl next to her greeted, sticking out her palm for a handshake. Her grip was delicate, like a butterfly, while Clary's was one that would crush its wings.

"Clary," she responded immediately, releasing Aline's hand. She was a pretty girl, with almond-shaped eyes the color of chocolate and shoulder, length sleek hair. She couldn't have been older than twenty, with perfectly contoured cheekbones and an aggressive cat-eye.

"Oh! You're the only one to move on from the New York auditions." Clary blinked, prompting an explanation from the younger woman. "Apparently after you walked off stage, the crew was in such awe of your talent that nobody else made the cut." Clary snorted.

"I'm not that good." Aline gave her a tight-lipped smile, her expression suddenly hostile as she backed away. Clary's brows knit together in confusion as she watched her sashay away in her snakeskin mini, before shrugging and deciding she wasn't here to make friends.

"Alright ladies and gents," Jordan called to attention, a tanned Maia positioned at his side barking something into a Bluetooth earpiece. "Today we are going to introduce you to your vocal coaches." A large round of applause was quieted immediately by Jordan's raised hands. "When I call your name please gather in a group to the right of me."

Clary's mind drifted as he rambled off a list of ten or so meaningless names, watching each giddy contestant sidle up after the next, eyes trained on the doorway to see which celebrity artist they would be working with.

It barely peaked her attention when Katy Perry waltzed through the door in a short purple dress, electric blue hair contrasting with her bright pink lips. From the few famous people she'd met in her life, including her father, she was not impressed.

Her heart only fluttered a little when her name was called for the next group, landing her a position next to a burly man with tattooed arms and a half-shaved head. "Please turn your attention to the right to meet your mentor." Clary's heart dropped when she saw a familiar face poke through the door, white-blond hair that was entirely too long hanging in front of his black eyes. He waved to the cameras, his beloved guitar slung across his shoulder blades as he reached out and shook the men's hands, enveloping the fainting girls in hugs before his eyes landed on her.

His face drained of all color, his body stiffening as he leaned down to wrap her in a hug. It was unlike the warm hugs they used to share when she was younger. It was devoid of emotion, like hugging a robot. It only lasted for a millisecond before he moved on.

Her heart hammered in her chest, regretting every decision that led her to this point. She needed to get out of the room, to shield herself from the scrutinizing gaze of every person in this room, feeling their eyes on her back as they traced her every motion, sizing up the only competition from New York.

Jordan had barely started listing the next group of people before she slipped from the room, dashing down the hallway to find an open door, memories blinding her vision.

She remembered that night like the back of her hand, the dagger sliced open the last stitch that held her family together and uprooted everything she'd ever known.

The doorknob jiggled uselessly beneath her fingertips as she used the heel of her hand to beat on the door again. _Jetlag_ she'd reasoned at the lack of response from her brother, cursing his overwhelming need for privacy and locking his doors, though she'd always sworn up and down she'd never enter his room without knocking and permission.

Hell, this wasn't even his room. It was her room in the apartment she was renting while she attended the university, costing her a pretty penny which she paid for in blood and hours at her mother's gallery. Still, she found herself begging for access as the sun continued to creep into the winter sky.

He'd crept in early this morning, around three a.m., returning from a gig in Las Vegas where he opened for a rock band she couldn't name, and she'd already been passed out on the couch, forcing him to take her bed. Had she been awake, he'd have been pissed. Ever the gentleman.

"Jonathon, please open the door," she pleaded dramatically. "I have class in an hour, and I'd really like to see my brother. We can get coffee. I'll pay."

A feeling of unease settled in her stomach as she was met with an eerie silence. Jonathon had always been a light sleeper, waking up at the beat of a fly's wings. Her knocking and grumbling should have been more than enough to roust him from the deepest slumber.

She found herself digging the nail of her thumb into the cheap lock and turning it, her heart pounding in her ears. Either he'd be pissed she'd broken her one promise, or he'd still be asleep and she could back away freely.

She was not prepared for what was on the other side of that door.

Her brother was sprawled on the bed, taking up the entire mattress the way he always had. She smirked to herself, remembering how she'd always forced Max to share a bed with him in hotels because Jonathon would always push him to the floor.

One arm dangled off the edge, his head turned toward the window with opened curtains. It was peculiar that the light hadn't woken him as she slipped forward, her feet like a ghost's on the carpet as she leaned over his slumbering frame.

Only he wasn't slumbering.

His eyes were open. Unblinking.

And a bottle of pills rested in his limp hand.

And he wasn't breathing.

"Jonathon!" Her heart lurched as she sprung into action, somehow mustering the energy to drag her brother's lifeless form into the shower of her bathroom, cranking it to cold and letting it run over his face as she leaned his head forward.

She didn't even think as she gripped his head, jamming her fingers down his throat until he finally coughed and vomited, still unmoving in her arms.

She continued even as she dialed 911, struggling to remain calm as she recited her address and the emergency.

The operator asked when he'd taken the pills.

She replied that she didn't know.

The medics had applauded her quick thinking as they sped Jonathon to the hospital, her following closely behind in a hand-me-down Cavalier, a crinkled note she'd taken from the bedstand in her pocket. The sirens haunted her every waking moment as she paced the waiting room.

She called her mom. She called Seb. Isabelle. Simon. She even called Jace.

It was no surprise that it went to voicemail.

"I just, thought you should know that…Jonathon overdosed this morning, and they…don't know if he's going to make it," she repeated with an alarming sense of calm after his message had played. She knew he wouldn't call back. She wasn't even sure if that was his number anymore.

She didn't dwell on it as her friends and family encircled her. He was alive and stable, his stomach pumped of the drugs, but they didn't know how his brain activity would be. So they huddled in a circle in the waiting room, crying over a scrap of paper that might be all that was left of him.

_I'll always love you_, it read. But everyone was left to wonder who the message was for.

She pushed through a heavy door, finding a couch on the other side to throw herself onto, burying her face into her hands to hide the tears. Why did it have to be _Jonathon_? There were thousands of other singers to choose from, and it just had to be her brother.

Her chest began heaving with silent sobs as she refused to let the tears fall, to smudge the makeup she'd so painstakingly applied today while Isabelle Skyped her to make sure it looked exactly right. Isabelle had finally just said it would have to do.

That was the story of her life.

It would have to do.

She'd been settling on so much of her life because that's all she was worthy of. She could only ever be average in attractiveness, average at singing, average at life.

Even all the men in her life had left her for something better, something more.

It's hard not to fall into the depth of her memories when they're screaming to be heard, to be brought back to the day she lost her naivety.

_"Jace pick up the damn phone," she'd growled, pressing her palm to her forehead as she paced the four-foot length of her bathroom. It was all she could do to hold back tears as she adverted her eyes from the stick resting on the edge of the sink. She flipped it shut as she twisted her fingers into her hair, curling into the ball on the floor until her mother found her that way, crippled by her own fear as the test showed two pink lines._

Her mother held her like Jace should have, shushed her cries instead of bubbling with anger. Jonathon was born when her mother was seventeen. She knew what it was like.

She sniffled, her heart leaping into her throat as someone cleared their throat, drawing her attention up.

She was met with golden eyes, curious and nonjudgmental as she swiped her nose on her sleeve. "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was here," she mumbled, lifting her body from the couch to leave.

Her eyes didn't move fast enough to miss his bare torso, chiseled abs morphing into a defined _v_ and disappearing into a low-slung pair of jeans. She could see hundreds of black, inky lines, twisting up his arms and over his shoulders, across his chest to form loops and twists, and in the middle of it all was her name, written in plain Arial font, with a thin heart permanently beside it. She felt the memory of her own sting on her ribs before averting her gaze.

"Rissa," Jace started, moving toward her with an outstretched arm. She bit her lip, hating and loving that old nickname only he'd ever used for her. "What's wrong?"

She looked at her shoes, the beat-up red Chucks she'd had since college, torn between pouring her soul out and not wanting to look like a fool. "It's nothing," she finally settled on, lifting her gaze to meet his. It was so familiar and so different all at once. She'd memorized the flecks, the outer rim that was just a shade darker. She'd remembered how she'd see them blazing through the night as he hovered above her, just a thin halo of gold around his dilated pupils. Now, they had purple bags beneath them, wrinkles at the edges. Laugh lines—a sign of a happy life.

"This doesn't look like nothing. I know you and—"  
"You _know_ me?!" she shouted, her hair almost turning to flames in her anger. "As I recall, I'm no longer considered one of your friends." She flushed, embarrassed she'd referenced his interview, but he didn't seem to notice.

"You've always been my friend—"  
"Bullshit," she seethed, sticking her finger into his chest. "You left me. You left me alone to deal with my fractured family, to get evicted from the brownstone, to nearly lose my brother to a drug induced coma he'd put himself in after a concert my father set up for him." She scoffed. "And now he's a guest star on this fucking joke of a show, probably just to spite me and send me home because you don't know how to deal with your problems like a man."

She'd always thought this of him, that he'd rather run away from the truth than face it head on. It was one of his few faults, namely the one he refused to acknowledge.

"Clary, I just—"  
"Did you fuck someone on this couch, too?" she asked in disgust as she turned her attention back to the couch. "I hope you've been using protection because at this rate you'll be in debt with all your child support payments."

She turned on her heel, then, her chest a nuclear explosion as the door fell closed between them.

And it felt good.

It felt good to not be so average.

It felt good to be bad.

* * *

_All My Love_

_~BallinBlonde21_


	8. Self Revolution

_Hello all! I am working on a massive edit for this story, as it is the lovechild of several different documents, and I keep finding little pieces I wanted in certain places. In the meantime, please enjoy this update!_

_Life Update:: I left my toxic job, was accepted into a PhD program, and moved across the country with my fiance! Life is good right now, so I'm hoping to update more frequently._

_The song used in this chapter is Best I can by Art of Dying._

_Read on, lovelies!_

* * *

**American Thighs**

**Chapter 7: Self Revolution**

* * *

He knows the whiskey would feel fantastic, burning down his throat, spreading heat through his frozen insides as it transferred the numbness to his brain, allowing him a moment of peace. But instead, he finds himself staring at the amber liquid through the crystal tumbler, watching each cube slowly melt into the alcohol as the bartender hands shot after shot to the teenagers partying beside him.

He's unrecognizable, with purple bags beneath his eyes, dark as bruises. He has his blond curls tucked up in a beanie, his eyes downcast to avoid any lurking paparazzi. The women don't need to know of his fame and fortune to sidle up next to him and take a swing at wooing him to bed. He waves them off each time, wanting nothing more than to stare at the whirlpool he's creating in his glass.

It's karaoke night—a night for all the amateurs to stumble drunkenly from the shadows and belt out the wrong lyrics to eighties hair bands before ultimately falling face first into a pile of their own vomit on their way to the restroom.

Not entirely his crowd of people.

"Jace," a voice murmurs in his left ear, making him crane his neck just a little to see her. Aline, he recognized almost immediately, her almond eyes rimmed in black smoke and sleek hair brushing her bare collarbones. Her lips are lined in a shade darker than her skin, drawing his attention to them as she speaks.

"Hello," he greats conversationally, smelling alcohol on her breath. Fruity cocktail type—he deduces as she twirls a small, decorative umbrella in one hand. Clary always preferred Miller Lite. There it is, the name he'd come here to forget. Yet he finds her in everything. He thinks of her carefree, howling laughter as he tickled her sides, wishing it was that he heard instead of the squealing of the woman beside him. Her eyes were at the bottom of his glass, winking upward with mischief and joy. He compares everyone and everything to her, even the woman before him, and nobody comes close.

"You should sing for me," her sultry voice purrs, claws—not as sharp as Kaelie's—reach out to run up his arm. He shivers, but not from pleasure. He shivers because they aren't the hands he wants to be touched by, the ones of his dreams. Those are much paler, more delicate, driven by love instead of lust. "I signed you up."

As if on cue, the previous act comes to a close, a rumpled looking announcer taking to the stage. "And next we have…Jace Herondale!" His glare lands on Aline as hordes of screaming women rush forward, surging around him with his heartbeat.

_Fuck it_, he thinks, telling the DJ to cut the selected song with a glare. "I…uh…I guess I'll play something that's been on my mind for a while," he grumbles into the microphone, determined not to make this a media nightmare for Maia, mostly to save his own ass from her wrath. He accepts a beaten acoustic guitar from someone in the crowd as he settles on a barstool placed at the center. He strums the first notes to an unrecorded song. "This is an exclusive, on night performance," he tells the crowd to deafening cheers.

_Tonight I feel like the world won't miss me,_

_So much to say, but there's no one listening._

_If we're alone are we all together in that?_

It was the first song he'd written in years, one of several his pencil had drawn out since the wheels hit American soil. He wanted to attribute it to the nostalgic sense of home, even if he didn't know where his actual home was. Was it London, where his parents taught him to crawl and then to walk and run and jump? Was it where Maryse took him to his very first PG-13 movie, dropping Alec and Izzy and him off at the theater's door with shimmering eyes? Was it with Clary in his arms, her small fist curled against his chest and her leg thrown over his hips? Home is where the heart is, but what happens when his heart is shattered into a million pieces?

_I threw a penny in a well for wishing,_

_Prayed for all the things I think I'm missing._

_A little time is all I really need._

He feels like Oprah sometimes. "You get a piece! You get a piece!" his heart would yell to anyone walking into his life. He wears his heart on his sleeve, except his sleeves are reinforced with steel walls, and his family is left banging at the barrier while Clary burst through like hydrochloric acid, dissolving a doorway for everyone else who ambles by. He doesn't know how he's been so dumb to let enough people in just to leave him empty.

_I am doing the best I can with everything I am._

_Don't you know nobody's perfect?_

_Do you understand how hard I'm trying to do?_

_The best I can_

_The best I can_

Hope was gone when he'd looked into her eyes. They'd once held so much love and awe in his presence. Now they're ferocious, angry, and hollow. They don't automatically find his in a crowded room anymore, in fact, they don't find his at all. He's not good enough. He'll never be good enough.

_A second chance to give you something_

_It takes a lifetime to come from nothing_

_I refuse to believe in running away, no_

Broken, beaten, shattered—he wonders what he looks like to her, returning to her life after so much time has passed. He wonders if she can still peel him back, layer by layer, until his muscle is gone, revealing how truly weak and terrified he is.

_I am doing the best I can, with everything I am._

_Don't you know nobody's perfect?_

_Do you understand how hard I'm trying for you?_

_I am doing the best I can with everything I am._

_Don't you know I think you're worth it._

_Do you understand how hard I'm trying to do the best I can?_

_The best I can_

He's always known she was worth it. That's why he cut himself out of her life. A moment of pain would certainly save her from a lifetime of it.

_I got a picture of what matters and I keep it close to my heart_

_It's a little faded but so am I_

He thinks of the tattoo on his chest, her name written so plainly it tends to get lost among the swirling newer additions, the black ink several shades lighter than the others.

_Cause I am doing the best I can with everything I am_

_Don't you know nobody's perfect?_

This drunken rockstar is the same Jace to hold her hand at prom when nobody asked her to go, the same one to push her higher on the swings until her toes touched the clouds, to kiss the tears from her cheeks when the silence of the night became to much. He is different and the same, and he doesn't know if she remembers who he used to be, if she still sees it in him now.

_Do you understand how hard I'm trying for you?_

_I am doing the best I can with everything I am_

_Don't you know I think you're worth it?_

Jace's love doesn't come from his heart. It comes from his soul, rooted so deeply into his entire being until each and every part of his body is yearning for her. Her mind, her body, her soul—he wants all of it, and Angel, if he doesn't feel like he's being burned alive every time he sees her. It's slowly killing him.

_Do you understand how hard I'm trying to do the best I can?_

_The best I can_

_The best I can_

_The best I can_

He doesn't want to be alone, but he'd be alone before breaking her all over again. He'd break himself a million times over just to make her heart whole again.

_And I'm doing, oh I'm doing the best I can_

_I am, I'm doing the best, oh the best I can_

_The best I can, oh the best I can_

_Oh I keep doing, keep trying_

The rockstar lies so easily, pretending to be a carefree party animal when all he really wants is a life that revolves around his best friend from a long time ago. The roaring in his brain drowns out the cheers as he haphazardly scrawls his name on the face of the guitar he's handed back to the beaming man. He stumbles from the bar, completely sober, brushing past Aline's grabby hands as he hails a taxi back to his mother's new house.

X.O.X.O.X

Jace looks up from the chords he's strumming on his guitar as Isabelle uses her shoulder to shove through the sorry lock on his door.

It's been years, he realizes, as he struggles to recognize his gangly teenage sister in the graceful model before him. Her hair is longer, falling to her waist in glossy strands that swirl around her with every step. The planes of her face are still smooth, but no longer covered with hidden acne. Her lips are painted in the darkest shade of red he's ever seen, eyes rimmed in layers of kohl eyeliner. It's there, in those onyx irises, he finds a sliver of familiarity.

He hadn't expected her to be timid in his presence, though he'd thought she'd carry some caution when seeing him after so long. Instead, she is livid, charcoal eyes blazing with fury as she stomps across the room toward him. She grips him harshly by the shoulder, squeezing a spot that makes him cringe. Even years and miles of separation can't quell the firestorm that is Isabelle Lightwood.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Angel, that is a loaded question. He can't decide what she wants an answer to.

_Why did he leave?_

_ Why did he come back?_

_ Were the tabloids right?_

_ What's with the bags beneath his eyes?_

_ Why can't he stop thinking about Clary?_

"Nothing," he responds indignantly, dragging his pick along the strings of his guitar, only to have the instrument wrenched from his grasp and tossed across the room, where it splinters against the wall.

He scowls. Isabelle doesn't flinch.

She's always been stronger than him. Better than him.

He knows her anger is warranted, that the vicious response to his return is completely his own doing. He'd left without a word, just disappeared during the night, not even leaving a cryptic note in his place.

He barely called, _never _visited. So why the hell is he suddenly back in the States? He doesn't exactly enjoy stumbling through these strange hallways, where people walk to stiffly and the air smells too clean. He doesn't want to be here, sitting on a bed he's never slept in, talking to a sister he's never deserved. It had been his manager's idea for him to tour the Americas, not a delayed case of separation anxiety, not an overwhelming sense of _millennial nostalgia_ like he's read about. And certainly not a specific redhead.

_Back to Clary_, he muses to himself.

"Why are you doing this?" she all but whispers, collapsing beside him on the bed as she refuses to meet his eyes. She digs her painted toes into the plush carpet, clenching her fists like she's struggling with control. She licks her lips when he fails to respond. He's always been good at avoiding his problems. "Mom…she's so happy that you're home."

"This isn't home," he bites out a bit harshly, catching Isabelle's audible squeak. "You know what I mean."

And she does. The big estate with its flowing gardens and musical fountains doesn't hold the same memories as that old brownstone, where they used to sneak cheap wine onto Clary's roof and drink until the stars swirled above them and dusk became dawn. It's not where they would hide in Alec's dusty closet and scare him when he crawled into bed at night.

"I just…I can't watch you crush her like that again."

He grits his teeth. He's never told anyone about the night he'd left. Not Maryse, not Alec, not Clary—how could anyone find it in themselves to forgive him when he can't even summon the strength to trust those who love him the most.

And he doesn't know if it's his refusal to be vulnerable or the fear of rejection that has kept him silent for so long. He's wrapped himself so tightly in his secrets that he's suffocated himself, killed off the innocent Jace that existed long before his voyage to America.

And somehow, his family is still here, throwing open the doors, welcoming him back in with arms wide.

Maybe it's the way Isabelle is looking at him, like she might shatter all over again. Maybe it's those empathetic eyes, the ones no longer an echo of the man who'd cast him out so many years ago. Maybe it's his need to breathe.

For the first time, he loosens his armor, shrugging off layer after layer of shame, of guilt and regret. With hands tightened into fists, the words finally spill from his mouth.

X.O.X.O.X

Jace had his first beer the summer before eighth grade. A group of them had stolen a pack of Busch Light from Mark Blackthorn's basement and snuck it out into the woods. It became a monthly ritual, huddled around a dimly lit fire with dopey grins on their faces as they exchanged stories of girls and games.

Freshman year, they'd managed to snag a bottle of tequila. The first sip tasted like shit—it always did, but the way it made him feel was immeasurable. It numbed his brain, replacing his normal emotion cocktail of guilt and pain with that of pure euphoria. Jace never talked about his past—not to Maryse, not to Clary, not even to the court-mandated therapist after the entire ordeal. Nobody truly knew what he saw that night—or every time he closed his eyes.

But with a stomach full of alcohol, Jace felt like he was soaring. It was like he'd finally shed the weight of his mother's death and could finally exhale.

And when the high would wear off, the feelings would return tenfold.

Their monthly activity had become a daily necessity for Jace. Yet, somehow he was able to hide how heavily he relied on the amber liquid in his thermos, continuing to pass his classes and excel in athletics. His mother either never noticed when a liquor bottle went missing or pretended not to.

Soon, around sophomore year, the alcohol wasn't doing its job anymore. Jace could drink and drink, and his demons still hovered around him like a cloak. They were immovable, unshakeable. That is, until his friend introduced him to pot. The cloud of smoke pushed out the darkness.

Until it didn't.

Senior year—pot became pills.

He'd go to parties and reach into a bowl, popping whatever he grabbed into his mouth and waiting for them to take effect.

The night—the cursed night—he'd attended one of these parties, pulling a handful of pills from the crystal bowl being passed around in the strobing lights and swallowed them all.

He woke up the next day in a house he didn't recognize, face pressed into the cold tile of a bathroom floor, drenched in his own sweat and vomit. In the bathtub was a boy, younger than him, staring forward, unblinking. There was a needle dangling from his arm.

He'd somehow managed to stumble home at three in the morning, jiggling the locked door of the brownstone. When it opened, he fell forward through the threshold.

He could only imagine what Robert saw when he lifted him up by his armpits. His eyes—black eyes—Isabelle's eyes—were brimming with disappointment and regret. There was so much hatred in his voice when he finally spoke.

"Get the fuck out of my house. Don't ever come around here again."

Jace's only clear memory of that night was the door shutting in his face, the lock clicking as loud as an explosion.

When he finally sobered up that afternoon, he checked himself into an anonymous rehab facility. They took his phone, cut off any communication to his past life. For months, he sat in his six by three cement room, staring at the tree out his window, wondering what was going on outside.

The first thing he did when he got out was go to the bar.

And that's when he knew he couldn't return to his family. He couldn't subject them to his addiction the way his father had to him.

In a perfect world, his love for his family would have healed him, would have driven him away from the drugs and the drink. He used what was left of his inheritance to buy a guitar and a one-way ticket to London. Where, somehow, even in his darkest moments, his deepest spiral, he'd found success.

He thinks now that it's because he chose a career that validated that lifestyle. A rockstar addicted to alcohol and pills is just a self-fulfilling prophecy. It's tolerated, expected even.

X.O.X.O.X

Isabelle Lightwood does not cry. But her eyes are not dry when Jace finally finishes his story, mustering all his courage to meet her gaze.

"I don't want to be that man anymore, Iz." He can tell she wants to hug him, the way her hands are twitching in his direction, not knowing if the affection would be welcomed. He closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms tightly around his sister as she cries softly into his shirt. "I've been a horrible brother," he tells her. She pushes him an arm's length away.

"A better sister would have seen the pain you were going through." She sniffles. "I had no idea."

He gives her a sad smile. "I've always been good at hiding it. Comes with the territory." His scars burn beneath his gray shirt. She blots the tears forming in the corners of her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, exhaling sharply to compose herself.

And then a sniffle comes from behind the slightly ajar door. Jace pulls is open to reveal a conveniently located Maryse and Alec.

Jace, who probably should feel violated by their eavesdropping, is grateful for their tight embraces as they tumble through the doorway. "I'll divorce that man a second time," Maryse says of Robert, but Jace quiets the notion. There's no one to blame but himself.

"You are my son, for the good and the bad," Maryse tells him. "And this time, you're not doing this alone." For the first time in nearly a decade, the tenseness in Jace's shoulders eases, the weight against his chest lifts without the aid of his chosen vices.

"I love you," he tells them, the words forming easily on his tongue as he allows himself to be overcome by his emotions.

* * *

_All My Love,_

_BallinBlonde21_


	9. Stressors

Hi lovelies! I want you to know that I have been writing during quarantine, but I think my emotions are very similar to many of yours. I wrote a lot right away and then lost a lot of motivation. I was going to go back and add more to my chapters and edit them, etc, but I was never getting around to it. I just decided to post them as is and hopefully gain some momentum to move forward with my stories! Thank you to everyone that has been reading and reviewing my stories during this strange time! Hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy! 3 3 3 Here's a big chapter dump to help everyone through another weekend at home!

* * *

**American Thighs**

**Chapter 8: Stressors**

* * *

Clary shuffled through the papers laying on her vanity before shoving them into her bag and collecting the makeup she'd left out earlier. The upcoming theme was pop, and she was struggling to find a song that suited her voice. She lacked the genre's distinct cheerfulness, making it difficult to reproduce any type of sound that resembled Taylor Swift or Ariana Grande.

Her breathy voice filled the room as she tested another song suggested by her music app. She stopped almost instantly, tossing her phone onto the tabletop and sinking into her chair. Nothing was going to work.

It didn't help that she'd been ditching her sessions with Jonathan. After what he'd said about her _son_, she didn't know if she ever wanted to see him again.

It wasn't like she was ignoring him to sit on her couch and watch movies. She still had a job that required both rehearsal and performance time. Though today's rehearsal unfortunately ended earlier than anticipated, and Clary could easily make her appointment with Jonathan.

The responsible part of her conscience nagged at her, and the incessant chiming of her phone as Alec begged her to show up today. She knew they needed footage of her for the upcoming episode. A big part of the competition was building a fan-base and having support from the viewers. Fans would hardly support someone they couldn't even recognize.

Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her keys and waved goodbye to the girls.

Clary ignored the cameras turning toward her as she shoved through the over-sized glass door, acting like she couldn't see the crew behind her dark sunglasses. She knew production was annoyed with her behavior. Honestly, she was somewhat appalled by herself, arriving twenty minutes late with cherry red lips wrapped innocently around an iced coffee, smiling and waving like she hadn't blown off every other session with Jonathan that week.

She found his door easily enough, marked with his name on a white sheet of paper.

In Comic Sans, naturally.

He didn't hear the door open, and she took a moment to just evaluate him. He was leaned over his guitar, tuning the strings as he hummed softly to himself. His white hair was longer than she'd ever remembered, a white-blond sheet falling past his shoulders. It was shiny, healthy even. His face filled out, pink tinging his pale complexion, dark eyes no longer rimmed in deep purple bags.

. There were two plastic chairs set up facing each other, eluding to the uncomfortable interrogation that would soon follow. She blew a curl from her face, fearful of smudging the layers of foundation and concealer Isabelle had meticulously applied to cover the yellowing bruises along her cheek and jawline.

Alec shifted silently in the background, instructing the camera crew to take a few shots before moving on to the next practice room. Clary had asked him to keep the cameras out of her face, and he'd willingly obliged, apologizing to Clary for what this show was putting her through.

"Clare—" she cut him off with a flick of her wrist, leaning in close as the cameras were being set up so they couldn't catch her words.

"Here, our relationship is strictly professional. You are my vocal coach, not my friend, and certainly not my brother." She stared into the space over his left shoulder as a crewmember locked the legs of his tripod.

There was a nearly undetectable shift in mood as the cameras began rolling, a shift from anger to fake enthusiasm. She pulled her guitar on her lap, the familiar scratches and chips in the wood rough under her fingers, a map of her memories as she listen to her brother's voice discussing the upcoming competition.

"Do you have an idea of what song you'd like to sing?" She'd zoned back in just enough to nod, shuffling a few papers from her pocket and smoothing them out for Jon to look at. "I think we should start by transposing it to a lower key." She bit back her retorts, knowing his constructive criticisms were part of this learning process and not meant to insult her. "You have a throatier voice, suited to singing rock music but lesser so for singing high-pitched pop songs."

She closed her eyes, breathing through her nose. This took her back to nights in the family room, singing along to the radio. He father often told her to stop, that the song didn't suit her voice and therefore made it unbearable to listen to. Jonathon knew that his words would remind her of this, but he didn't seem to care.

An hour of tense practice later, the cameramen shifted from their positions to head to the next room. Jonathon didn't waste any time changing the topic from musical practice to their problems. "You don't mean that I'm not your brother, do you?" His charcoal eyes were vulnerable, a look that didn't quite suit his strong features.

"You bet your sorry ass I do," she growled, refusing to shy away from the intense stare he was giving her. "Last time I saw you, you called me a whore. And not too many times before that you unresponsive in my guest bed." He sighed, gnawing on his lip the way she did when she was nervous. It was Jonathon's tick for when he felt that he didn't measure up.

"That was four years ago, Clary. I thought we were over that. Now, I…I want to protect you while you're here." She scoffed.

"I don't _need_ your protection. I just need to win this competition."

"You know Dad and I could get you a record deal like that," he said snapping his fingers. The chair scuffed the floor as she rose to her feet.

"I don't want you or dad to help me. I want to do this on my own terms. No drug-induced hazes, no sex clauses. Nothing."

Jonathon was never one to bow down during a fight, to tap out and weasel off to pretend nothing had happened. No, instead, he rose to his full stature, towering over her with creased brows. "You're not here for this damned competition! You're here for Jace, for some hopeless dream that he'll love you again. I know what that bastard did to you, and you're sorrowfully mistaken if you think I'll let him anywhere near you again."

"Don't you _dare_ call Jace a bastard," she hissed, squaring her shoulders to show she was unafraid.

"Okay, so the _child_ he fathered would be a bastard." Tear stung her eyes as her hand collided with his cheek, shocking her to silence momentarily, a falter her brother used to his advantage. "Who had to scoop you up from that puddle of blood on your bed and drive you to the hospital while Mom was at work? Who held your hand for hours after the doctor couldn't find a heartbeat? Who was _there_ for you when he wasn't?"

Her eyes met his, her jaw set. "If Jace _had_ been there, he sure as hell wouldn't make it seem like I owed some debt to him for his kindness. He wouldn't make me relive it again." Her handprint had barely faded against his cheek when she spun on her heel and left.

X.O.X.O.X

Raphael had been pissed.

Clary had shown up only ten minutes before her set, still rattled from her argument with Jonathan. He growled at her apologize and excuses and all but shoved her onto the stage.

Her music started. It was Jace's song because of course it was. She plastered a smile on her face and just focused on getting through the performance. She was the last dancer of the night, and the men were already drunk and loose with their cash. She could have just twirled in a circle and left with her panties full of cash. Still, she felt Raphael's heavy, disproving gaze on her, so she tried to shake off the rest of the day and give every drop of energy into this dance.

When the lights faded, she left the stage to a heavy round of cheers and catcalls. She could still hear it in the background as she shut herself in her dressing room, collapsing onto the couch and finally letting the tears fall.

They weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of frustration, of anger, of emptiness. She cried until more mascara was on her cheeks than her lashes, black droplets falling from her chin and onto her thighs.

"Raphael?" she called a while later, as the door to her dressing room clicked open, her vision obstructed by the thin partition. She was met with silence, so she lifted the remote to turn on the stereo, letting the music fill the aching quiet of her mind.

It wasn't until she'd finished taking the pins from her hair that she heard another noise. "Raph, seriously, this isn't funny." He'd always had a twisted sense of humor, turning off all the lights on the girls a frequent activity of his.

And he had been really upset with her earlier. She wouldn't be surprised if he was attempting to scare her as retaliation. She didn't hesitate to mute the music and call him out on his prank.

Only this time when she rose from the threadbare vanity chair, she was grabbed from behind, gasping for breath as a hand covered her airways. The words she tried to scream were muffled, and even a bite to her attacker's hand did little to deter him.

"I know," a heavy, robotic voice spoke as she noticed a red-hot curling iron looming in her view, being inched closer and closer to her face. "I know what you've done."

Her eyes widened, her mind whirling. Sebastian couldn't have articulated a stunt this dark, wouldn't let the joke drag on this far. "Drop out of the show." The attacker's hand moved just enough that she could sink her teeth into a good chunk, making him yelp. "Fucking, bitch!" A resounding crack could be heard, reverberating in her brain as her cheek trickled blood. She stumbled backward, her arm falling across the scalding curling iron, making her cry out.

Stunned, the attacker smacked her again, drawing blood from her nose and split lip. "Help!" she croaked several times, enough to make her attacker feel uneasy. He left without another word, only giving her a view of dark hair through her bleary vision as the door closed behind him.

Gripping her arm, she threw the locks on dressing room door, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth the way the therapist taught her. "Fucking hell," she growled through gritted teeth. She was hyperventilating as she dialed Sebastian's number with shaking hands, cursing when it went straight to voicemail. The same happened with Simon's and Isabelles's. She didn't even try Jonathon's, knowing through the grapevine that the latter was performing a small gig at an A-list party that night.

She didn't give herself time to think as she punched in the familiar numbers, praying that it, too, would go straight to voicemail.

When he picked up, though, she sobbed into the receiver. "I didn't know who to call," she explained as he tried to calm her. "I need someone here."

"Where do you live?" he asked calmly. She heard an engine rev as she recited the street address of her workplace.

"I'm not home," she whispered when he'd prompted her for a room number. She heard footsteps in the hallway then, and the sobbing resumed. "He came back!" she hollered, clambering backward as they neared. "He's not done."

"Who? Rissa, who?" Her terror piqued as the knob on the door rattled, aggravated cursing following.

"He…He…." She choked out, backing into a corner as the rattling subsided.

"I'm here," he huffed into the receiver, sounding out of breath. "Let me in." She scrubbed at her nose, cradling her injured arm to her chest as she undid the locks.

She bit her lip at the sight of him, soaked from head to toe from a torrent she hadn't realized had been happening, water droplets dripping from his hair as he closed and locked the door behind himself.

"I didn't…I didn't know who to call." She couldn't meet his eyes as he gingerly reached out toward her arm.

"Who the fuck did this to you?" She cringed away from his anger, shaking her head as more tears slipped from her closed eyes, but Jace put his finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. She heard him suck in a breath at her blood-stained cheek.

"Tell me who did this so I can kill the man that hurt you."

She laughed humorlessly. "Every man in my life has hurt me," she spat out, tearing her chin from his grasp. He shook off her bitter words as he led her from the room, shielding her from the rain with his jacket as he helped her into the passenger seat of his car. He busied himself with the usually automatic tasks of driving, though she could see the tenseness in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw. He was pissed. He still cared.

It felt like only seconds before they were pulling through the gate to a large mansion, one she knew to belong to Isabelle's parents. She didn't say anything as they traversed through the empty hallways, landing in some nondescript room. Jace instructed her to sit on the bed as he shuffled around in an attached bathroom.

She hissed as he dabbed the ointment on her arm. He apologized but kept applying the cool gel, finally wrapping it in a bandage. It wasn't too bad of a burn, enough to leave a mark and hurt for a few days, but not enough to leave a scar. He had that familiar focus about him, the steady set of his jaw as his hands worked meticulously over her skin, his golden eyes unblinking as they didn't cringe away from her reddened flesh.

This was the man she'd needed all those years ago, when she was sixteen with her face in her hands staring at the white stick on the marbled countertop. The calm, steady existence she'd wished for when she'd woken in a pool of her own blood, rushed to the hospital to find the only part she had left of him had left her, too.

Jace still didn't know, which haunted her every day.

She bit her lip, hissing at another flash of pain as he wrapped the bandage around her wound. "I'm sorry," he murmured, true remorse in his voice as he pressed an ice pack to her bruising cheek. She didn't know what he was apologizing for. For her wounds? For leaving her?

He sat down on the bed, dropping his head into his hands. "When I…" he trailed off, taking a deep breath. "When I invited your brother to be a vocal coach on the show, I didn't think you'd audition." She sat in silence, refusing to acknowledge his words. "I knew what had happened. I saw it in the tabloids, watched the news broadcasts, and I wanted to call you so damn bad. I _did_ call you, but you didn't pick up—"

"I called _you_ every day for an entire year, and you didn't have the nerve to call me back." She'd finally broken her vow of silence, seething as his eyes fell to the floor. "So much more happened than just my brother deciding I wasn't enough to live for, and I had _no one_." She wished her body didn't hurt so damn bad and that her heart didn't leap at every small noise because she would have left. She should have left.

"I know," he whispered, not looking at her. "I know."

"You don't know!" she sobbed, but Jace didn't stiffen beside her like she'd expected. Instead, he moved closer, and she buried her face into the sleeve of his shirt. "There's so much you don't know."

His hand came up, hesitantly stroking her curls. "It's okay, Rissa. It's okay."

He sat there as she sobbed, running his fingers through her hair and murmuring soothingly. It was already late into the night when he offered her a t-shirt and turned back the bedsheets for her. Maybe she should have hesitated, maybe she should have thought twice before crawling into his bed.

But she didn't.

And she didn't think when she reached out for his hand, silently asking him to lay beside her. No words were exchanged, but Clary's heart stuttered at the look in his eyes, the eyes usually so closely guarded.

They showed hope.


	10. Pop Punk

**American Thighs**

**Chapter 9: Pop Punk**

* * *

_Songs: Blank Space - I Prevail_

_Rock N Roll - Avril Levigne_

* * *

"Here I thought my big sis was getting to famous to hang out with me," Sebastian teased as she slid into the booth. She kicked his shin under the table, smirking even though she knew it didn't really hurt him. "I'm only joking," he defended. Clary tossed him one of her eye rolls as a menu was slid in front of her. The waitress hovered a moment too long to bat her long lashes at her brother, making Clary almost choke on her water. "Whaaaat?" Seb whined, ever oblivious to the exchange.

It was so hard to see women fawning over her brother, the one who used to push his glasses up his nose and traipse around the house with green soldiers sticking out of his nose. He'd grown up, filled out, but the same childish demeanor was there. A boy entrapped in a man's body. She didn't know whether that would be glorious or horrifying.

"I'll have the French toast," Seb told the waitress in a level voice, still unperceptive of her attempts to woo him. "And a chocolate shake."

"Not watching your figure, huh?" Clary mumbled, blushing as the waitress's fiery eyes snapped to hers. "I'll have a cheeseburger, medium-well, please." After collecting their menus, the waitress disappeared in a flicker of brown hair. "Seb," Clary hissed. His eyes lazily left the spot they'd been gazing at out the window and met hers. "You've really got to step up your game, buddy."

"What are you saying, Clare? That I can't get the ladies?" Clary raised her eyebrows.

"Clearly you didn't notice that cute waitress attempting to catch your attention." He squinted his eyes in a familiar way, though unobstructed by the gleaming lenses of his round glasses.

"I guess she's cute," he grumbled, a pink blush staining his cheeks. Clary laughed lightly. Seb had never shown an interest in dating, and it was Clary's life-long mission to find him a woman to love.

"Excuse me, Miss?" She waved the waitress down, politely asking for more water. "What's your name again?" Innocent question with ulterior motives.

"Emma. Emma Carstairs." Her voice was steady, and to her credit, her eyes didn't flicker more than once to Seb's, who had his head bowed in embarrassment.

"Hi, Emma. I'm Clary, and this is my brother Seb. He'd like your number."

"Clary!" Seb burst out, shying back into his seat as Emma's eyes fell on him, a soft blue that was calm and reassuring. A smile settled on her roseate lips as she scribbled a few things down on an empty order ticket and passed it his way. Seb begrudgingly shoved it into his pocket, though Clary could see the excitement in his eyes. "I hate you, you know that?"

"You love me." He shrugged, but a smile crept its way onto his face.

They ate quickly, as Seb had to rush off to a meeting. He picked up the bill, to her dismay, ignoring her attempts to repay him as he chirped his car unlocked and slipped inside. "Bye, Clare!" He hollered over his shoulder before driving away.

"Bye, Seb," she sighed, thumbing open her phone to respond to a text from Isabelle.

_Urgent_, it read, followed by a plea for Clary to come and rescue her from a date gone horribly wrong. That was always fun.

She found herself weaving the familiar path to one of Isabelle's favorite restaurants, slipping past the maître de. Isabelle wasn't hard to spot, her silken raven locks a contrast to the sea of blonde waves. Her bored eyes perked up when she spotted Clary, weaving through the crowded tables like a lunatic.

"Izzy!" she cried exasperatedly as she reached the table, extending a hand to help her friend stand up.

"We need to go to the hospital. Alec was in an accident!" Isabelle's acting classes had been coming in handy, as her face visibly paled at Clary's statement, her hand fluttering to her heart.

"Brycen, I really must go. I'm sorry," she apologized as she gentlemen wished her and Alex well, his voice filled with concern for his date that was ditching him. Clary was surprised he didn't insist on coming with. Most of Isabelle's suitors did.

"Thanks for that," Isabelle said as they exited into the street, getting lost in the New York crowd.

"Anytime." They walked in silence until they reached Isabelle's car. They slipped inside, and Isabelle began steering the regal hunk of metal and gears toward Clary's rundown apartment.

It was unspoken that Izzy would walk the stairs with Clary, but an unexpected visitor waited outside her door. "Clary!" Simon greeted, "I was wondering if you wanted to do lunch or—"

His words stopped abruptly as Isabelle moved beside Clary, offering a radient smile. "Simon," Clary said after a moment of staring. He was becoming slack-jawed, and she decided she needed to swoop to his rescue. "This is Isabelle. Isabelle, Simon." She made the appropriate gestures and mediated a handshake.

"Nice to finally meet you," Simon managed to squeak like the pubescent boy he pretended not to be, but Isabelle flushed all the same. Clearing her throat, Clary jingled her keys in the door.

"I was actually going to watch some episodes of Chopped if anyone was interested." They didn't break eye contact. "But if you two would actually like to get a room, I wouldn't be upset."

After a few frustrating minutes of them not replying, she disappeared into her apartment, leaving the door open for them to follow.

X.O.X.O.X

"And we're here with frontrunner Clary Fray in the second week of _Jace Race_," Alec bubbled into the microphone, his eyes skirting the remaining contests before landing on her face. "How are you feeling about the pop performance tonight, Ms. Fray?" Clary laughed lightly, running a hand through her signature curls before responding.

"I think it's safe to say that pop music isn't my strong suit—"

"SPEAKING OF SUIT!" Magnus bellows as he appears through the doorway, a cape sweeping the floor as he struts in front of the camera, "Could you please tell us who designed that lovely outfit you are wearing?" Clary rolled her eyes, picking gently at the black bodysuit with the plunging neckline Isabelle had yanked on her skin.

"Michael Kors." Magnus made a small humming noise in the back of his throat.

"We're getting there," he responded finally, clapping his hands. Two stagehands came sprinting to lift his cape from the floor, staggering behind him as he headed toward the judges' table.

"He's letting the fame go to his head," Alec mumbled, his eyes growing wide as he noticed the camera focused on his face. "I mean, erm, Magnus Bane, everyone!" He brought one of his hands up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. "So, anyways," he forced a laugh, "the twittersphere has been seeking an explanation for the recent blowup you had with vocalist Jonathon Morgenstern," Clary threw him a warning glance, but Alec shirked it off. She knew it was his job to probe for answers, but she hoped he'd put their friendship first tonight. "Do you have any comments for our viewers?"

The mic in her face seemed to mock her as she scrabbled for words. "We are two strong-willed human beings with varying opinions. We just disagreed as most people do. It may not have been handled properly, but we are moving forward with our eyes on the finish line." She flashed a crimson grin.

"Good luck tonight, Fray. We are all rooting for you." He dropped one of his eyelids in a quick wink, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips before he turned to the next singer.

The crystal pendant around her neck seemed to be searing a hole through her breastbone as she watched the lights dance in preparation. The crowd hummed with excitement, workers blending into shadows as they set the stage for the night's performance.

Her heart hammered heavily in her chest. She could go back, turn away right now and slip into the quiet day life she'd created for herself. She could tear her eyes away from Jace and never turn back.

She knew that to be a lie as she traced his outline in his red chair, laughing at something Jordan was doing with the pencils in front of him. The smile on his face looked so natural, so like the ones she'd put there many years ago. A pang of jealousy ripped through her chest as she realized she hadn't been the cause of his smiles in almost a decade.

They hadn't spoken since that night. She'd left before he'd woken up.

She'd wanted him to feel her pain, to know how she'd felt so many years ago.

By the looks of it, he was doing just fine.

"Touch up!" Isabelle cried, dashing around the backstage scuffle in her stilettos, a liner pencil poised in her right hand. Clary didn't even protest, thankful for the distraction to pull her attention away from one of the many boys in her life that had left her, given her proof that she wasn't good enough, that she'd never be. "You look like sex, Clary," Isabelle commented, smudging the black eyeliner at the edges before shoving the pencil into the pocket of her tight jeans. Clary shook her head lightly. "Alright, go wow them with your T-Swift repertoire."

"I don't sing Taylor Swift!" She threw her hands up in exasperation as Isabelle merely blew a kiss, disappearing through the exit just in time to miss Clary's rude gesture.

"Stage one, ready!" It felt like a helicopter was taking off where her heart should be as she wrapped one sweaty hand around the mic given to her and stepped into the lights.

X.O.X.O.X

_Jace, Jace, Jace_! The crowd chanted his name endlessly as he slung his guitar over his shoulder, looking up into the spotlight with a grin across his face. "Hello, Miami!" He stumbled back a little at the responding roar. "As many of you know, the theme for tonight is pop," he scoffed the last word a little, earning a chuckle from the crowd.

"Well, I don't do pop." He smirked, grabbing the mic stand and tipping it toward him. "So I'm here to do a cover of a cover." He sat down at the shiny grand piano being pushed onto stage, his finger striking a lone key. "Here's 'Blank Space' by I Prevail." His golden curls fell over his face as he began to play.

_Nice to meet you, where you been?_

_I could show you incredible things_

_Magic, madness, heaven, sin_

He winked at the crowd on the word sin, holding back laughter as men and women alike attempted to climb the stage.

_Saw you there and I thought_

_Oh my God, look at that face_

_You look like my next mistake_

_Love's a game, wanna play?_

He pointed at his bassist as the large man leaned into the mic, whispering the only words he'd ever said on stage.

_Aye, aye_

He bowed politely at the eruption of applause, a blush coating his apple cheeks as he attempted to fade into the background once more.

The fame was short-lived as one of his guitarist seated himself on the bench beside Jace, his red-tipped Mohawk perfectly coifed as he began to strum.

_New money, suit and tie_

_I can read you like a magazine_

_Ain't it funny, rumors fly_

_And I know you heard about me_

_So hey, let's be friends_

_I'm dying to see how this one ends_

_Grab your passport and my hand_

_I can make the good girls bad for a weekend_

He abandoned the piano all together, pushing back as he grabbed the mic from the holder and headed to the edge of the stage. Hands came at him from all angles, grabbing at his torn jeans, hoping for just one touch. He smirked, spreading one arm wide as if to address the entire stadium.

_So it's gonna be forever_

_Or it's gonna go down in flames_

_You can tell me when it's over_

_If the high was worth the pain_

_Got a long list of ex-lovers_

_They'll tell you I'm insane_

_'Cause you know I love the players_

_And you love the game_

He strode the length of the stage, pushing his sweaty curls from his forehead as his guitar thumped rhythmically against his back. He loved this feeling, the feeling of thousands of people screaming his name, hanging on to every word he said, vying for one look, one brush of the hand, one smirk in their direction. It made him feel empowered, needed.

_'Cause we're young and we're reckless_

_We'll take this way too far_

_It'll leave you breathless_

_Or with a nasty scar_

_Got a long list of ex-lovers_

_They'll tell you I'm insane_

_But I've got a blank space, baby_

_And I'll write your name_

He swallowed heavily, jumping up as he prepared for the hardest part of the song, hoping his voice didn't go hoarse from all the switching pitches.

_Cherry lips, crystal skies_

_I could show you incredible things_

_Stolen kisses, pretty lies_

_You're the Queen, baby, I'm your King._

_Find out what you want_

_Be that guy for a month_

_But, the worst is yet to come, oh no_

He lifted the microphone back to his lips after a quick breath, his eyes scanning the area backstage for a familiar face.

_Screaming, crying, perfect storms_

_I could make all the tables turn_

_Rose garden filled with thorns_

_Keep you second guessing like_

_"Oh my God, who is he? Who is he?"_

_I get drunk on jealousy_

_But you'll come back each time you leave_

_'Cause, darling, I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream_

His eyes couldn't see her in the blinding lights, so he turned back outward, projecting his music at the crowd rather than at the one person he cared was listening.

_So it's gonna be forever_

_Or it's gonna go down in flames_

_You can tell me when it's over_

_If the high was worth the pain_

_Got a long list of ex-lovers_

_They'll tell you I'm insane_

_'Cause you know I love the players_

_And you love the game_

He slung his arm over his guitarist as he slammed the cords, the man's eyes closed with concentration.

_'Cause we're young and we're reckless_

_We'll take this way too far_

_It'll leave you breathless_

_Or with a nasty scar_

_Got a long list of ex-lovers_

_They'll tell you I'm insane_

_But I've got a blank space, baby_

_And I'll write your name..._

It took everything in him not to look backstage once more, knowing the media was already onto something between him and Clary, not that there really was anything anymore. She avoided him like the plague.

_Girls only want love if it's torture_

_Don't say I didn't, don't say I didn't warn you_

This was torture. Was it love?

_It's torture, it's torture_

_Don't say I didn't warn you_

_It's torture, it's torture_

_Don't say I didn't warn you_

He reached down from the edge of the stage, holding his hand to his heart before grasping the pink-tipped fingers of a blonde woman, his name written across her well-endowed chest. He brought her palm to his lips, kissing the edge of it gently before staring into her crystalline eyes and singing.

_So it's gonna be forever_

_Or it's gonna go down in flames_

_You can tell me when it's over_

_If the high was worth the pain_

_Got a long list of ex-lovers_

_They'll tell you I'm insane_

_'Cause you know I love the players_

_And you love the game_

He scrubbed a hand down his face, finding it slick with perspiration. His black t-shirt clung to his muscles as he raised one arm over his head.

_'Cause we're young and we're reckless_

_We'll take this way too far_

_It'll leave you breathless_

_Or with a nasty scar_

_Got a long list of ex-lovers_

_They'll tell you I'm insane_

_But I've got a blank space, baby_

_And I'll write your name._

He looked down as the music faded, catching a flash of red from the corner of his eye.

"I hope you're ready, America," he huffed, smirking into the camera looking up at him. "Because it may be the third week of _Jace Race_, but we're just getting started." He shook the droplets of sweat from his hair as the producer called for commercial. Instead of going to the woman hovering at the edge of the stage, he reached down and scrawled his name across several pairs of breasts, ignoring any sense of morality that attempted to invade his mind.

X.O.X.O.X

She stood, shadowed as her week played across the screen behind her head, showing her leaned over a guitar in the practice room, blushing with embarrassment as she tried to hide from the camera. It showed the sideways glances Jonathon would give her while he worked with another contestant in their group. It showed the way her eyes always found Jace's when she entered a room.

It was like all her feelings were on full display to the world, open for any interpretation the media could concoct to explain these quote "unusual" occurrences. She preferred to call bullshit. There was nothing strange about making eye contact or looking at someone if they captured your attention somehow. It was stupid, and she finally knew how actual celebrities felt every day of their lives.

Clary chose to tune her guitar instead of pay attention to the crowd's input of 'oohs' and 'ahhs'. She regretted looking up when she saw Jace's eyes seeking hers now, the gold hard as he studied her leather outfit.

Without warning, the music began, effectively cutting off whatever Jace was trying to telepathically communicate. She adjusted her shoulder strap quickly, clear green eyes leveling on the judges.

_Let 'em know that we're still rock n roll_

She dropped a wink at Magnus's approving expression shaking out her curls so they fell over her shoulders, nearly reaching her belted waist.

_I don't care about my make-up_

_I like it better with my jeans all ripped up_

_Don't know how to keep my mouth shut_

_You say, "So what?"_

Maybe she wasn't amazing at singing the popular genre, but throw in a little punk and she could really rock.

_I don't care if I'm a misfit_

_I like it better than the hipster bullshit_

_I am the motherfucking princess_

_You still love me_

She tilted her head to the side, blowing a red kiss at a boy wearing her face on his shirt.

_Some-somehow_

_It's a little different when_

_I'm with you_

_You know what I really am_

_All about_

_You know how it really goes_

_Oh, oh, oh, oh, yeah_

_Some some way_

_We'll be getting out of this_

_Town one day_

_You're the only one that I_

_Want with me_

_You know how the story goes_

_Oh, oh, oh_

She threw her guitar over her shoulder, abandoning it as she threw her hands up in the air.

_When it's you and me_

_We don't need no one to tell us who to be_

_We'll keep turning up the radio_

_What if you and I_

_Just put up a middle finger to the sky_

_Let 'em know that we're still rock 'n roll_

Isabelle hand painted a skull on her middle finger for the sole purpose of her flipping off the camera like a cheesy rap video. She had to admit, it was a nice touch.

_Rock 'n roll_

She held out the microphone as the crowd backed her up, hundreds of voices blending to one.

_Hey hey hey_

_Rock 'n roll_

_Hey hey hey_

She brought it back to her mouth, pulling her top to the side lightly to reveal the small heart inked under her left breast, almost able to hear Jace's breath hitch over the pounding music.

_Call it a bad attitude dude_

_I'm never gonna cover up that tattoo_

_I might have a couple issues_

_You say, "Me too."_

_Don't care about a reputation_

_Must be living in the wrong generation_

_This is your invitation_

_Let's get wasted_

The audience began clapping along, producing the backup vocals as they'd finally recognized the Avril Lavigne song. She finished the song with a cheek-splitting grin, allowing the crowd to finish the last verse without her as she brought her hand to her ear, still in awe of how empowering yet humbling it felt to be on the stage at these moments, people seeing her talent rather than her body.

Her chest was heaving up and down as she turned to the judges, finding Magnus giving her a standing ovation, Maia with the only smile she'd ever seen on her face, Jordan with his feet kicked up on the table, eyes closed as if he'd been really enjoying the music, and Jace with a stern, unreadable expression.

"That is a wonderful tattoo, cupcake," Magnus commented first, coating her skin in heat as she bit her lip. "You might have to tell me the story behind it one day." He shot her a wink.

Maia spoke next, her voice lacking its usual harsh edges. "You have such a natural confidence. It suits you." Clary, unsure of what to make of that, merely nodded.

Jordan shot to his feet when it was his turn to speak, bouncing on the toes of his J's as he splayed his fingers across the table. "You have so much raw talent that there's really nothing for me to say other than you'll get a record deal with or without this victory." He jabbed his pointer finger into the table, "_but_ you compliment his cocky ass," he gestured to Jace who refused to acknowledge the comment, "you just _have _to win."

Jace looked bored. "I'm not sure punk counts as pop."

"You didn't sing pop," she countered, flinching as Jace's hand landed heavily on the table.

"I'm not in the competition." He looked startled at himself but shielded it immediately. "I'd watch yourself, Clarissa, or you'll be out of here faster than yesterday's sushi."

"Actually I've been eating it all afternoon. It's delicious," Magnus supplied, waving a pair of chopsticks in the air to solidify his point.

Clary didn't stick around for their bickering, choosing instead to rip the crystal from her neck and let it fall to the stage as she took her exit.

X.O.X.O.X

"In other news, Clary Fray seems to ignite anger on the set of _Jace Race_, infuriating both of our favorite Jonathons over the course of the week. Fray, a frequent on the social media accounts of the year's hottest model Isabelle Lightwood, is rumored to have attempted to seduce Jace to increase her chances of winning the competition, despite knowing that Jace is completely _in love_ with reality star Kaelie—" the blonde from TMZ disappeared as Isabelle turned off the television.

"Oh, stop watching that," her friend grumbled popping grapes into her mouth as she settled onto the white sofa. They were lounging in Isabelle's Manhattan penthouse between fittings for next week's show and Isabelle's runway appearances in the fall fashion shows. "You know those testosterone-fueled explosions were entirely unwarranted."

Clary threw her head back against the sofa, staring at the pendant lights Isabelle had installed a few days ago. "Not exactly. I showed off my tattoo during my performance."

"And it was _hot_," her friend responded, her dark eyes clouded with confusion.

"It's _the_ tattoo, Iz. The only tattoo I've ever gotten."

"You mean, the ones you and Jace got on your sixteenth birthday?" Clary nodded solemnly. "What the hell was the tattoo artist thinking outlining a heart under the, admittedly small but nonetheless, boob of an intoxicated minor." Clary shrug, choosing to ignore the jab at her chest, which had taken a lot longer than puberty to appear. "Why would that piss him off?" Clary shrugged.

"I don't know, maybe he doesn't want to be tethered to me in any way, and that was just another memory he was hoping to forget." Isabelle snorted.

"Do you need a snorkel for all the bullshit you're swimming in?" Clary glared. "I'm serious, Clary. I saw the way his face lit up when he saw you were wearing the necklace he got you in the ninth grade. He was like a kid on Christmas."

Clary narrowed her eyes. "You still wear Rudolph footsie pajamas on Christmas Eve and sleep on the couch in hopes of seeing Santa Claus."

"Not. The. Point," Isabelle bit out, attracting the attention of a few tailors stitching furiously. "I'm just saying that I've talked to him, and he's under the impression that _you_ don't want to talk to _him_."

"That's because he knows you turn around and repeat everything to me," she whispered in a hushed tone, knowing the other women in the room were known gossipers, not wanting the secret details of her past released by way of seamstress. "He's just saying that."

"Whatever, Clare." She turned the television to a _Pretty Little Liar's _marathon, effectively cutting off any retort Clary could come up with.

X.O.X.O.X

"You berate her every week, but you refuse to vote her off the show," Jordan growled, towering over Jace from the other side of the desk. Jace merely inspected his fingernails, his feet propped on the desk in disinterest as his manager continued to holler. "Seriously, Jace, this is ridiculous. You _know_ she's the best. You _know_ she's the obvious winner, but you still choose to insult anything she does."

A crystal necklace was dropped on the desk between them, two pairs of eye staring at it. The hazel ones in confusion. The golden ones in anguish. A tattooed hand reached out, shoving the pendant into the pocket of his jeans. "What is it, Jace? What does it mean to you?" Jace crossed his arms, flattening his hostile glare on the other man. "Before I was your manager, Jace, I was your friend. I want you to tell me what this means to you before you self-destruct."

The blond scrubbed his hands down his face. "Before I was famous, _she_ was my friend. My best friend." Jordan's eyes widened fractionally.

"And this is a secret because…?"

"Because she told my sister that she wants to win this competition because she's the best, not because I have some sad debt to pay." He shook his head. "She is the best, but if I told her that, she wouldn't believe me. She doesn't listen to me anymore."

"That's the saddest, stupidest thing I've ever heard." Jace looked up at his friend's laughing eyes, dropping his feet to the ground and hoping to leave before Jordan could stop him. "What makes you think pushing her away is going to bring her back to you?" Jace whirled around, his face contorted with rage.

"What makes you think I _want_ her back in my life?" Jordan pointed at the lump in Jace's pocket.

"You kept the necklace." Glowering, Jace threw open the door, stepping through the threshold. He stalked down the hallway to end the conversation, but not before hearing Jordan call something after him.

"Nice tattoo, by the way!"

X.O.X.O.X

Jace found Magnus in the lobby talking to Alec. He grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet and pressing him against the wall. "As much as I do enjoy being handled roughly by attractive men, I do not think this is appropriate behavior in public." Jace shirked off Alec's grabbing hands.

"You told them about my tattoo." It wasn't a question. Magnus bit his lip, Alec's concerned voice fading into the background as golden eyes scorched into his skin.

"They deserve to know, Jace! Your relationship with her shouldn't be a secret." Jace glowered.

"There's no relationship anymore, Magnus," he released the sparkling man, who promptly smoothed the lapels of his purple velvet coat, completely calm despite the seething muscle in front of him.

"Alec, darling, would you give us a moment." Reluctantly, Alec shuffled away, Jace knowing why his shoulders sagged a bit. His brother used to be his greatest confidant, the best secret-keeper on the face of this earth. "Jace Herondale, you need to pull yourself together this moment. I don't care how horribly you fucked up eight years ago. You are here today to fix it. So you will follow your brother and pour your heart out to him the way he wishes you would. You will compliment Clarissa on her next performance, even if it is the pitchiest piece of shit you've ever heard, but let's face it, she's perfect so that won't be a problem. You will thank your sister for everything she does for you and for Clary. And most importantly, you will _stop_ drinking." Jace raised his eyebrows. "Maia told me. The whole crew knows actually." His shoulders slumped. "I'm disappointed in you, but I'm more worried. You know how bad it got last time." Magnus clapped him on the back.

"You can do this. Everyone's rooting for you." Magnus gave him an earnest look before shooing him down the hallway. "Jace 2.0 arrives today. Don't let me down….well, more than you already have," he mumbles, making Jace's brow furrow. "Just kidding! You'll do great." Jace smirked, shaking his head before calling after his brother.

"Alec, wait up," he huffed after chasing Alec's retreating figure down a winding hallway for more than five minutes.

"You didn't _fucking _tell me, Jace. _Me!_ Of all people, you didn't tell your own damn brother."

"Alec, I—"

"And don't pull that flesh and blood shit, Jace, because you know damn well you're my brother through and through no matter what your DNA is and—"

"I didn't tell anyone, Alec." His brother stopped talking, a hand resting on the knob of the exit. "Not Isabelle, not mom, not the guys at school."

Alec's question came delayed and quiet. "Why?"

Jace ran his hands through his hair, exhaling with puffed cheeks. He'd been expecting this question for over eight years, wondering when the day would come for him to finally explain himself, to break down these protective walls and let everyone in.

"I just…I thought it would bring attention to her. Male attention. And I…I didn't want to lose her."

Alec, blunt as ever, scoffed. "Sure as hell did a great job of that, huh?" Jace scrubbed a hand down his face.

"Yeah, and Isabelle was her best friend, and I didn't want to lose my sister, too. I hadn't had a family in _years_, and then I got lucky and did a great job of fucking it all up." Jace felt an arm draped around his shoulder, Alec's embrace warm, unlike the stiff hugs he'd imagined returning to.

"You _can't_ lose us. Whether you like it or not Mom, me, Izzy—we're all here to stay and bother you and steal your things and pick fun of you." Jace smiled.

"You have no idea how great that feels, man." He put his arm around Alec as they exited into the night.


	11. Awaken

**American Thighs**

**Chapter 10: Awaken**

* * *

_Song: I Apologize - Five Finger Death Punch_

* * *

Jace rolled over that morning, having a break from filming. His sheets were in a state of disarray, his head throbbing from something other than alcohol—nightmares. Helping Clary bandage her wounds had reopened old ones that had long ago sealed.

With shaking hands, he poured himself a glass of water, fighting back the fear rising in his throat.

It wasn't hard to see that Jace had been abused. He had scars marring every part of his chest and his back, thin white lines crisscrossing in what seemed to be an intricate pattern, hieroglyphs of pain and suffering.

Maryse didn't know to what extent. She didn't know that the first family he visited had starved him, that the second would hold him under the bathtub water until black coated his vision. She didn't know that Jace often dreamed of Michael Wayland's black eyes, piercing through the night though they should have blended in. She didn't know he memorized the stench of metal cutting flesh, that he could dull the pain in any part of his body with a little bit of concentration. She knew that he had to have two blood transfusions before he was removed. She thought it was due to accidents and bad supervision, not two thin lines cutting up the sides of his arms.

He pushed his sweaty hair from his forehead, leaning his elbows against the cool countertop. Only Clary knew how his parents had died, in a night of pure vulnerability, she'd listened silently as he recalled hanging upside down in the car, the hollow sobs echoing in his mother's chest, the odd angle of his father's neck. And all that blood.

He was desensitized to blood long ago.

The trill ringing of his phone pulled him from these memories, and he was thankful for the distraction.

"Hi, mum," Jace breathed into the receiver, knowing his adoptive mother could always tell when he needed her most.

The Lightwoods were a godsend, swooping in just before Jace was forced to transfer to a group home as nobody wanted him. They saw him through therapy, school, and athletics. They encouraged him to follow his dreams and aided him in every way they could. He'd given up on loving families by the time he was eight, but Maryse showed him his beliefs were a farce.

"No, no, I just got up," he grumbled in response to her asking if he was feeling alright. "Yeah, I know that it's already ten, mum." They chatted for a bit before she had to get back to work, sending her love and asking him to let her cook him dinner once this week. "Of course," he'd responded, hoping his voice spoke volumes of the affection he felt for her. He ended the call with a bit more energy than he'd woken up with, able to pull his aching muscles through another workout before hopping into the shower.

There had been a text from Kaelie when he woke, asking to meet him for a late lunch. He'd agreed and was now guiding his Audi toward the restaurant Kaelie was meeting him at. It wasn't hard to find where she was sitting, even from outside. Her blonde hair was visible through the window, but obscured by swarms of cameras vying for a picture of her picking her nose or with lettuce in her teeth. Tabloids played on celebrities insecurities, and even though Jace didn't enjoy Kaelie's company, he found himself shooing them away for her sake.

"Hello," he greeted with a kiss on her cheek, actually enjoying the smell of her sweet perfume today. He told her as much, earning a tight-lipped smile.

"Why did you send away the paps?" she asked casually, but he could tell she was fuming. A reality television star apparently loved press, good or bad. It kept her name out there and circulating. Jace's name could be continuously found in the songs popping up on the radio, so he felt no need for his picture to show up on the cover of every rag-mag in a ten country radius.

"I wasn't aware this was a publicity date," he retorted almost coldly, using his menu to shield the venom leaking into his features. He wasn't a stern man, especially to women. But damn if Kaelie didn't make him want to scream in her face.

"Everything I do is for publicity, darling." She feigned a formal accent, cracking herself up in the process.

"Yeah, look. I think we need to talk about this whole 'publicity' thing." Something sparked in her blue eyes that resembled interest. She rarely had any desire to listen to what he said, but now she was leaning forward, her fingernails creeping forward toward his hand.

He pulled it away, using it to rub the back of his neck. Casting a glance sideways, he made sure nobody was listening too intently.

"I can't do it anymore," he finally breathed. "This is fake, and we both know it—"

"But Jace, I—" she interrupted, but Jace cut her off with a shake of his head.

"I've seen you kiss another man, Kaelie, but that's not the problem. The problem is that I couldn't care less! In fact, I was happy that you'd found someone, Kaelie. Someone that can love you the way I never will be able to." She sat in contemplative silence, and Jace exhaled a heavy breath he'd been holding.

"His name is Meliorn," she whispered finally. "He's the producer of my show." Jace gave her a crooked smile.

"Then be with Meliorn, Kaelie. Be with someone who makes you happy, not someone who makes you look famous."

A smile broke out on her face. "I'm not famous because of you, you jackass." Jace exaggerated an eye roll as Kaelie let out a giggle, one that didn't want to make him vomit on his shoes. "Can we still eat though because I'm starving?"

X.O.X.O.X

The world's favorite rockstar just became the world's most eligible bachelor as sources tell us Jace Herondale and Kaelie Whitewallow have agreed to end their two year relationship. Our source tells us that they split on good terms and even had lunch as friends after—

Isabelle cast a sideways smile at Jace, who was pretending to be too enamored with his phone to notice his face plastered all over TV. The only problem was that his face also coated every social media site in existence as desperate women sought his recently single attention. "Jace!" Isabelle finally shouted after he'd ignored her humorous advances for too long.

"Whaaaat?" he asked, his voice somewhere between a cry of annoyance and a laugh at her eager expression.

"You did it. You found your muse." His head jerked toward her now, his phone still propped above his knee. "It's Clary."

His eyebrows knit together as she stood up and left, just continuing on her merry way without another word. Isabelle had been the one who hated her so much, had cussed him out when their relationship had first gone public and encouraged him to break up with her every conversation they had. He thought she'd be more excited to hear that she wouldn't have to attend any Herondale-Whitewallow wedding in the near future.

She was the one who didn't believe him even when he continuously told her it was a ploy to increase her ratings. She'd complained that he'd sold out.

Now she wasn't excited because he broke up with her.

She was excited because she thought he was going to get with Clary.

He sighed, sinking back into the sofa cushions as he turned to FX, knowing there was a 95% chance they were playing an Ironman movie.

It was the third one.

But his mind wasn't on superheroes and supersuits. It was on his fingers sifting through mounds of red curls, searching for the wood tick she'd been sure had taken root in her brain. It was on his lips seeking hers in the darkness, finding they tasted of salty tears. It was in his Cavalier, with the rain pounding down around them after the battery had died and left them stranded. It was on the curves of her body and the curve of her smile, on the light in her eyes and the light in her mind. It was on her voice and the way each note resonated deep within his soul.

It was on her.

He found himself abandoning the movie, his fingers itching for the old acoustic he'd gotten after he'd given his other one to her. The chords and the words flew from his mouth in a way they hadn't done in years.

It was about her.

X.O.X.O.X

Clary scowled, holding the towel tighter around her breast as Isabelle's stupid camera filmed her exiting the bathroom in a cloud of steam. Isabelle had insisted Clary stay over after the attack, and then she'd been grateful to have such a concerned best friend.

Now she hated it.

"Vote Clary for Jace Race!" Isabelle shouted in a sing-song voice, releasing the button and tapping out a message.

Clary released her towel, rubbing it through her curls. "I'm surprised nobody has mentioned that you and Jace are siblings," she mused, swatting the camera away as Isabelle attempted to take a photo.

"Well, we have different last names and don't look alike, so it's not really easy to notice." Clary shrugged, pulling on a pair of leggings and a sweater. She was set to meet with Jonathon again today and had no desire to dress up. "Let's get lunch before you go film," she insisted.

Persuasive as ever, Clary found herself seated in Isabelle's red Corvette, watching the traffic flash by as Isabelle drove them to her favorite Italian restaurant. Despite being so thin, Isabelle could truly eat like a horse.

It was over bowls of pasta, that Isabelle's real plot came to light. "Jace broke up with Kaelie." Clary moaned and shook her head, her mouth too full to protest this topic. "Hear me out." Clary settled on a scowl. "Neither of you know it yet, but you'll be together. Come hell or high water, you two belong with each other."

Clary finally swallowed. "Are you done?" Isabelle raised her eyes as if she were thinking.

"Yeah, I'm done."

"Thank god because we have to go."

Isabelle kissed her cheek as she dropped her off, waving like an overprotective mother as Clary disappeared behind the studio doors.

"Jon," she grumbled, settling herself beside him as he looked up from his guitar.

"I wrote a song for you," he blurted out, forgetting to adhere to the strict formalities she'd insisted upon. A glance around showed a lack of cameras, so she decided to bite.

"What is it about?" Jonathon looked at his fingers along the strings. They were calloused, bloodied. Guitarist fingers.

Their father had used his connections to start him out in acting. Unsurprisingly, he excelled, the star contrast of his black eyes and white hair a perfect image on the big screen that made females swoon. He still acted every so often, but the shift to music had been a strong and permanent one. Jonathon had always wanted to be in a band. Clary didn't blame him for seizing every opportunity he was given.

"You know how shitty I am with words." She laughed because it was true. Jonathon let a small smile show. "It's just everything I've wanted to say to you in musical form."

He didn't wait for her to say more before playing the notes he'd memorized.

_One day the shadows will surround me_

_Someday the days will come to end_

_Sometime I'll have to face the real me_

_Somehow I'll have to learn to bend_

_And now I see clearly_

He focused solely on his guitar, his rough-edged voice in great contrast with the smooth planes of his young face. He was an artist expression his feelings through his chosen medium—music. Her attention was directed toward the deeper meaning behind his lyrics, to what he was apologizing for.

_All these times I simply stepped aside_

_I watched but never really listened _

_As the whole world passed me by_

_All this time I watched from the outside_

_Never understood what was wrong or what was right_

_I apologize…_

He'd stood up now, annoyed with sitting when the song had such a powerful meaning. A crowd had formed at the entrance to the room, peering in through the window to see who was singing. Clary wanted to hug her brother, to tell him she forgave him and that he was wrong but she didn't care. She couldn't do that with an audience watching.

_One day I'll face the Hell inside me_

_Someday I'll accept what I have done_

_Sometime I'll leave the past behind me_

_For now I accept who I've become_

_And now I see clearly_

She tapped Jonathon on the shoulder, and he peered up, a pained smile stretching his lips as the women recognized his face, swooning and jiggling the handle to the locked door. He didn't stop singing, though. This was for her, the broken sister.

_All these times I simply stepped aside_

_I watched but never really listened _

_As the whole world passed me by_

_All this time I watched from the outside_

_Never understood what was wrong or what was right_

_ I apologize… _

She finally understood the message. They were both fractured by the painful divorce they'd suffered as children, by their controlling father, by Jonathon's suicide attempt, and by the limelight. They were one in the same. And Jonathon was apologizing because he understood, because there was nothing he could do to stop it, because there was everything he could do to stop it.

_One day the shadows will surround me_

_All these times I simply stepped aside_

_I watched but never really listened _

_As the whole world passed me by_

_All this time I watched from the outside_

_Never understood what was wrong or what was right_

_I apologize…_

"Clary, you and Seb are all I want to live for—all I _have_ to live for." He sighed, frustrated with his words as he ran a hand down his face. "I've spent years watching dad treat you like a pile of shit, yet I took his help when I needed it. That night I was…I wanted to spite dad. That night I saw how _you_ see him. I know I can't take it back, but it was never because of you. I love you."

Clary had drifted out of view of the women, throwing her arms around her brother's neck as he joined her in the corner. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear, squeezing him tighter than ever before, fighting back the tears stinging her eyes.

"I'm sorry," was his only response, before they returned to the view of everyone and began to work on her song for next week's country competition in Nashville.


	12. Relapse

**American Thighs**

**Chapter 11: Relapse**

* * *

_Songs: Mr. Misunderstood - Eric Church_

_Relapse - Carrie Underwood_

* * *

He rested his head on the back of the seat, pulling his beanie cap lower down over his golden curls as if it could conceal his identity. Like anyone would question who he was, lounging on the brown leather sofa of his luxurious private jet, a gift he'd bought himself after his second world tour.

He'd wished he'd just kept flying coach.

Then he wouldn't be forced to spend two and a half hours trapped in an airplane, pretending to be interested in small talk and collaborating on music when all he really wanted to do was have a bottle of Jack in each hand emptied by the time they landed.

He had to forcibly refrain from checking the

popularity polls, finding it easier to drag himself from the comfort of the home his mother made at the early hour of four a.m. without knowing who he'd spend his incarceration sentence with.

"Where the fuck is the contestant?" he growled into his phone as he picked up a call from Jordan. He was getting impatient, and it was almost time to take off.

"She's at the gate, Jace," Jordan used a warning tone. "You be nice to this girl or I will personally twist your nutsack." Jace smirked.

"You'd like that too—" he was cut off by a bundle of red curls appearing through the door, closing behind her in a thud that fell on deaf ears.

It was suddenly like they were teenagers again, dressed in pajamas and sneaking into each other's rooms in the middle of the night. Her hair was unkempt, eyes red and puffy without makeup, a yellowing bruise visible on her cheek. It took all her had in him not to reach out and run his thumb across it, to press his lips to it in a vain attempt to take her pain away. He was barely in control. She was too real. Beautiful.

They hadn't talked since that night at his house when she'd fallen asleep beside him on his bed, unconsciously curling into his side as she snored softly. He'd gently moved her to a pillow before he'd left in the morning, having kept a close eye over her all night to ensure her safety. He knew she'd would want to leave when she woke up, though, and unable to deal with that, he slipped out the door and separated them on his own terms.

"Hi," she breathed finally, fist clutching tightly at the backpack strap slung over her shoulder. It was hard to clear his mind. How do you act around someone you've seen naked? Someone's body you know a thousand times better than your own? Every peak and divot was embedded in his mind like a map of creamy skin, a constant distraction every time she was within earshot.

"Hi," he replied quietly, composing himself enough to rise to his feet and hoist her backpack into a secure compartment. She let him take her hand and lead her to the sofa, surprised when she willingly settled herself beside him.

"I heard you yelling at Jordan through the phone. Sorry I was late." A pink blush was creeping up her cheek, disappearing into the neckline of her hoodie.

"No, no…I'm just an ass in the morning." He cocked his head to the side contemplatively. "All the time really."

A small smile broke the tight line of her lips as the pilot told them to prepare for launch. Jace tensed when their hands brushed reaching for the seatbelts, but Clary didn't seem to notice, settling back and letting her auburn lashes graze her cheekbones.

He used to take these moments to cup her face, to watch the sun catch the freckles on her eyelids and bring out the blonde flecks in her eyebrows.

He sat on his hands, counting down to the familiar heavy feeling of takeoff as the jet's engines purred like the graceful machinery they were.

The only way he could keep himself from touching her was to let himself drift off to sleep, ignoring the contented sighs falling from her lips.

He felt himself jolted awake moments later by turbulence, and Clary's fingernails grappling fearfully at his arm. They weren't like the claws Kaelie used to get her way. They were rounded, unpainted. It was a fear response, not a tactic for coercion.

"Shhh," he cooed automatically, placing his palm over hers to calm it. Her green eyes were wide, terrified as the plane rocked side to side. "It's just a bit rough. It will smooth out soon."

She bit her lip, casting her eyes down to where they were touching. "I've never been on an airplane before." He nodded knowingly. Neither of them were wealthy growing up, but where he'd been lucky to make it big, she'd been tethered to her roots.

It was his fault though for leaving her behind.

His control faltered as his thumb moved to free her lip from its confines, lingering longer than necessary. "Jace…" she gasped, not moving away as his hand moved to cup her cheek.

"Do you hate me?" he breathed, ducking his head closer so that their noses brushed.

"I just missed you," she responded after a moment, her eyes meeting his as gold got lost into green like a million times before.

"I shouldn't have left without saying goodbye."

"No, you really shouldn't have." He could feel the guilt etching its way across his features as his hand shifted into her curls, pulling their mouths closer together.

"I'm sorry."

"Would you like some music, sir?" a question came over the speakers, their bodies leaping apart like the times they'd almost been caught by Isabelle.

"That would be splendid, thank you." Clary was biting her lip, visibly holding back laughter.

"What?" he asked in exasperation.

"I just forget how British you are sometimes." He shook his head, letting a smile grace his lips as a soft guitar began to strum through the airplane.

_Come on skinny love just last the year_

_Pour a little salt we were never here_

_My, my, my, my, my, my, my_

_Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer._

"I love this song," Clary mused, her hands still tense and curled around the end of the seat. Of course, Jace knew this. She'd added it to his special _Senior Year CD_. They'd listened to it on the eastbound, traffic-heavy drive to school every morning, belting out the lyrics together.

_I tell my love to wreck it all_

_Cut out all the ropes and let me fall_

_My, my, my, my, my, my, my_

_Right in the moment this order's tall_

As his graduation approached, he found himself skipping past it, knowing in his mind what was going to happen, that the love he felt for Clary would transcend space and time, but the love she felt for him probably would not. And he didn't want to hold her back. She was talented, beautiful, and driven. He had faith she would succeed, knew she could. He'd just wished he'd realized how strong of a support he was for her.

"And I told you to be patient. And I told you to be fine. And I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind," she sang, her eyes falling shut as her head draped backward across the seat. Behind her, through the window, a patchwork of alternating towns and fields and lakes and streams passed by, her spirit and grace touching each one whether they knew it or not.

"And in the morning, I'll be with you, but it will be a different kind. I'll be holding all the tickets, and you'll be owning all the fines," he joined in, choking up a little when her fingers released the seat and brushed against his.

_Come on skinny love, what happened here?_

_Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere_

_My, my, my, my, my, my, my_

_Sullen load is full; so slow on the split_

He'd been able to see the pain in her eyes with every photo Izzy sent, hear the despair in her voice through every voicemail. Yet he didn't want to drag her down or hold her back. Because if his dreams failed, he couldn't have been able to support her the way he should, couldn't have given her the life she deserved.

_I told you to be patient_

_I told you to be fine_

_I told you to be balanced_

_I told you to be kind_

_Now all your love is wasted?_

_Then who the hell was I?_

_Now I'm breaking at the britches_

_And at the end of all your lines_

Her coldness and anger had broken him, left him in pieces. But he deserved it. All the shit she'd been through while he was away. Hell, all that happened while he was here, he deserved her wrath.

_Who will love you?_

_Who will fight?_

_Who will fall far behind?_

_Come on skinny love._

_My, my, my, my, my, my, my_

His eyes landed on her, hers on him. There weren't fireworks or cosmic explosions bursting between them. There wasn't a sparking electricity that was visible to the human eye.

Instead, everything just stopped. The white noise of the airplane, the sound of his own heart beating, her slow, even breaths. Everything was gone, melting away as he fell into her emerald gaze.

He waited for it to end, for her to blink and look away with a blush rising on her cheeks, for her eyes to narrow with remembered anger. But they just stared.

She closed the distance first, tangling her fingers into his hair the way he only let her as her body shifted to wrap around him. It was as if time had stopped, as if no time had passed and they were just two kids figuring out what to do with all these feelings.

"Jace," she breathed quietly, her voice quiet but steady as her hands moved to his jawline, massaging over the scruff he'd let grow over the past few days. "You've grown up," she mused between kisses, her mouth molding softly against his. He brought his hand up to the back of her neck, using it to pull her face closer, to catch the gasp of surprise falling from her lips and take the opportunity to explore her mouth.

He'd missed this feeling. Of her skin against his, their hearts beating in rhythm, their hot breath trapped in their locked lips. Her fingers slipped back into his curls, tugging and twisting in a way that drove him insane.

He twisted one hand into her curls, pulling her head back gently to expose the creamy skin of her throat. He butterflied kisses along her jaw, trailing down the side of her neck before suckling at where her neck met her shoulder. "Jace," she moaned, pulling his lips back to hers in a desperate motion. He moaned back as she shifted on his lap, involuntarily thrusting his hips into her core. She gasped into his mouth, grinding down on him.

"Clary." His tone was one of warning as she continued to circle her hips above him.

"Do you have a bed on this thing?" she asked brazenly as she draped her chest in his face, still enticing though completely covered in fabric. He nodded as her face descended on his, grabbing her ass and hauling her to the back of the plane.

He closed and locked the door as her lips attacked his neck. "Sit down," she commanded, pulling herself from his arms as she stood before him.

She pulled her sweatshirt over her head, revealing a dark green lacy bra, her nipples visible through the nearly sheer fabric. "You didn't come to the back of the club to sleep with another woman, did you?" she asked, turning around to shake her hips in synchronization with his heartbeat.

"No," he choked out, earning him a kiss on his pulse point as she turned to straddle him.

"You came to see me."

"Yes." Her gyrating ass against his member was almost enough to make him cum. If he hadn't wanted to be inside her so desperately, he would have.

"Why?"

He bit his lip, allowing his eyes to roll back into his head as she ran her fingernails up his abs. "I…I missed you."

As soon as he said that, her weight disappeared. His eyes snapped open. "Sing," she commanded, standing before him with her hands on her hips and her curls fanning around her face like flames.

"What?" His chest was rising and falling in heavy pants, hardly giving him enough oxygen to hum a note.

"Sing."

He cleared his throat as she began to move her hips the way only a dancer came.

_She wraps those hands around that pole_

_She licks those lips and off we go_

_She takes it off nice and slow_

_Cuz that's porn star dancin'_

His voice cracked a little as she made use of anything in sight, slowly sliding her pants down her legs to reveal a matching thong as her body continued its fluid motions.

_She don't play nice, she makes me beg_

_She drops that dress around her legs_

_And I'm sittin' right by the stage for this_

_Porn star dancin'_

She smirked as she reached behind with one hand, unclasping the bra and letting it fall to the floor with a soft swish. Her breasts had definitely grown since he'd last seen her, almost a cup size bigger from when they were in high school. He had to hold himself back from jumping her.

_Your body's lightin' up the room_

_I want a naughty girl like you_

_Let's throw a party just for two_

_You know those normal girls won't do._

She finally kissed him, pulling his shirt over his head so her perky nipples were pressed against the bare flesh of his chest, his member strained in his pants. "'Pornstar Dancing'? Really, Jace?"

"I panicked, okay?" She started to laugh at him, eliciting a growl from deep within his throat.

He wrapped his arms around her, flipping her onto her back so he was hovering above her. Her arms were wrapped loosely around his neck, one leg bent up and hitched on his hip.

His lips landed on her neck, feathering kisses against her collarbone, over her tattoo, before latching on to one of her nipples the way he remembered she liked. Her back arched into him, telling him things hadn't changed.

He used his hand to tweak her other nipple, happy to make her thrash beneath his ministrations. "Jace," she moaned as he released her puckered flesh with a pop. Her eyes were hooded as he brushed the curls from her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He could see the red flaring on her chest as she tried to hide her gaze, but a finger under her chin held it steady. "What do you want, Rissa?" She sighed, defeated as she opened herself to him.

"Touch me, Jace. Give me one of your mind-blowing orgasms." He held his smirk inside, undoubtedly pleased to know no one had loved her quite as fantastic as he had. His fingers slipped from her face down between the valley of her breasts, trailing past the line of her bellybutton and lingering on the waistband of her panties.

Her hips bucked upward in anticipation as he finally slipped beneath, pressing his thumb against the bundle of nerves. She threw her head back against the pillows as he began to rotate his thumb in circles.

It didn't take long from him to get greedy and begin to lap at her with his tongue, moving it in long lines along her slit. He eagerly drank in her juices as she climaxed. He crawled up to her nuzzling his face into the spot where her neck met her shoulder, only to be pushed away. "We aren't done yet. I've waited eight fucking years for this," she growled, undoing the snap of his jeans as he shucked them down a little. She moved her panties to the side, wrapping her legs around his back and pulling him to her entrance.

They sighed in unison as he began to push in, enveloped in a familiar warmth as her hips began to meet his thrusts. He braced his weight with a forearm on either side of her head, his eyes trained on her face. Tracking what made her eyes roll back, what made them flutter shut, what made curse words drip from her tongue.

It was just like high school, staring into each other's eyes, her usual shyness ebbing away as her body worked cohesively with his, drawing him deeper and deeper into her with each thrust.

"Baby, I'm going…" he grunted out. "I'm going to cum." He brought one hand down between them, desperately and greedily wanting them to fall together. As if on cue, her mouth opened, her moans becoming louder as her walls quivered around him.

They collapsed and lay next to each other, chests heaving as Jace drew a blanket over their naked bodies.

He kissed her forehead, settling his chin atop her curls before allowing himself to drift to sleep.

X.O.X.O.X

She perched on the edge of the bed, head in her hands as the wind and rain howled outside. Jace had knocked several times, and she'd watched his disappointed face through the peephole when she didn't open the door.

He hadn't tried to text her, for which she was grateful. A relapse was taking over as she tumbled uncontrollably into that pit of despair she'd torn her nails clawing out of so many years ago.

When she was with him, it was like none of that shit had happened. It was just Jace and Clary, together, the way they'd always been.

But after the blinding white light cleared from her mind, she could only remember red. It was vacant from the mirror after thinking the brown dye would wash away the compliments he'd given her. It was in the end call button when she only reached his answering machine. It was the puddle against her sheets as she woke up screaming, not of pain, but of absence.

Of absolute absence from him, a feeling she had certainly become used to since losing her child.

Now she'd had him again, pressed against her naked breast, looking at her with those eyes full of wonder, like he'd never seen a piece of artwork quite as impressive as her.

He didn't know the secrets she kept.

Didn't know the pain she'd suffered.

But he cared. Right?

Kicking herself wouldn't be enough pain as a repercussion for her stupidity. She'd boarded the jet with the intention of sleeping, ignoring his attempts and small talk, and maybe not even say hello. She'd put on her bitchiest face and was late specifically to piss him off.

And then he wasn't pissed off.

And he was the way he used to be.

And she missed him.

"Why couldn't you just keep your damn pants on?!"

"Well hello to you, too!" Isabelle exclaimed, wheeling her suitcase into the room and shutting the door loudly behind her. Clary threw herself back onto the bed with a groan, her friend crossing her arms over her chest. "Spill."

Cracking open one eye to see Isabelle impatiently tapping her foot against the patterned hotel carpet.

"I kinda, sorta hadsexwithJaceontheairplane."

Eyes bulging, Isabelle flew forward, pulling Clary from the bed. "Wait. Kinda sorta as in penis enters vagina as in—"

"Yes, Isabelle, that's how sex works."

"Were there fireworks? Are you two back together now? Please tell me you're together so that Jace will come around more and not be an entire asshole when he—"

"I told him it was a mistake."

Isabelle's jaw fell open. "You _what_? Why would you do that?!"

Biting her lip, Clary fell silent. She could tell Isabelle about the miscarriage, but that was a well-guarded secret only shared between Jonathon, her mother, and herself. But her friend's charcoal eyes were sincere, her lips capable of holding the most incriminating secrets. She wouldn't tell Jace. Clary knew that.

But telling Isabelle might make it become real again, something she couldn't pass of as another nightmare from so long ago. "Clary, please talk. You're scaring me."

_Inahle. Exhale._

"You're my best friend, Iz. I would kill for you _and_ die for you, but I've been the worst friend."

"No, you're an amazing—" Clary put her hand up, shaking her head.

_Breathe_, she had to remind herself. "When I was sixteen, I…I had a miscarriage." All color drained from Isabelle's face as the words settled in. "It was Jace's child," she answered the question her friend was sure to ask.

The memories flooded back, unwarranted. The screaming. The blood. So much blood. The look in the doctor's eyes as he told her that her child would never be born, that she didn't even have to push. As a sixteen-year-old mother with the father in the wind, she should have been grateful. She just felt hollow, dead.

"Does he know?" she managed to sputter through her shock. Shamefully, Clary shook her head, red curls brushing her cheeks. She still smelled like him. Still felt his kisses along her spine.

"When I first found out I was pregnant, he had already left for London. Every time I called him, his manager would answer and tell me I was using lies to hold him back."

"Oh, Clary." Isabelle's hand rubbed soothing circles along her back, but Clary's eyes were dry.

"I always intended on keeping the baby," she whispered. "He was so young when I lost him."

"He?" Isabelle choked out. Clary could see she was on the verge of tears, shocked that her best friend could keep such a big secret. "I'm an aunt to a boy?" Clary nodded, touched that Isabelle considered her unborn son a nephew. "Are you going to tell, Jace?"

Clary shrugged. It was so long ago. She didn't need to bring all that grief into his life right now. He might think she was just jealous of his success. "I just want to get as far as I can in this competition based on my ability, not on my relationship with Jace, and then, when his life is less hectic and after he's had some time to breathe, maybe I'll tell him." It was a conflict Clary had been waging since his chair had turned around that first day.

And a conflict she'd become tactful at ignoring, she realized as she reached over to pour two glasses of rosé.

X.O.X.O.X

Tattooed hands lifted simultaneously with his, scrubbing distractedly down a reflection of his own face as he sighed. "Fuck you, asshole," the mouth seemed to growl at him, though the words fell from his own lips. Golden eyes were narrowed to slits radiating a feeling that was too strong and powerful to be described as hate.

He hated himself for what he'd done this morning…last week…eight years ago. Everything from the day he left that led up until now was a hazy fog that he wished he could take back and stay forever in her arms. If the universe would find him a way to take away all the pain he'd put her through and the residual pain she felt from the sight of him, he would gladly give his own life for it.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to see the way her eyes scanned every room for a threat, then flickered around once more to check for his presence. Without a psychology degree, he could still tell that his smile fractured hers, that his laughter stole hers away. His happiness without her was the equivalent to a knife being twisted slowly in her back.

He knew this because he felt the same.

The smiles, the laughter, the egotistical rockstar—it was all an act, a façade that he'd become so accustomed to wearing he didn't know how or when to strip it off. Not for Maryse. Not for Izzy or Jordan. Not for Clary.

Maybe he'd faked it so much that he'd finally become the man he'd swore he'd never be, too encompassed within himself that he refused to acknowledge the world around him, too wrapped up in his own life and greatness he couldn't see past his big ego.

Never before was he _that_ guy. Moving to the United States, he was the kid with the funny high tops who sat at the back of the room. He was the kid who didn't talk to the girls even when the approached him, who sought comfort in the form of a comic book or board game.

Then high school came. He found that muscles made him feel powerful, that tattoos made him feel bad and sex made him feel whole. He'd found that popularity filled a void he never knew he had.

He knew what a therapist would say because it was what they always said, dismissing him within the first five minutes to work on himself before returning. He never returned.

They always told him that he'd never come to terms with his childhood and that's what made him establish these indestructible walls. They always forced him to relive the moment the light left his mother's eyes, the already dead stare of his father, the fear he felt at the end of a belt or the burn in his lungs when he was held under the water too long. Coming to terms with it was different than having to relive it every time he sought help from the dark hell he was in.

He was fucked up. He fucked everything up. Literally.

He found himself letting his hormones mediate the war between right and wrong, tending to think with his dick instead of his brain, lately. It was easier to let a little blood movement decide what was best than wading past the murky depths that was his mind.

"You're on," Alec burst, throwing open the door and barking a few orders into his headset. Jace pulled a black t-shirt over his head, allowing the swirling lines curling up his arms to be a reminder of who he didn't want to be tonight. "Let's go; let's go!" Alec, who was all business tonight, commanded, pushing Jace through the door without a moment's hesitation. It was a memory of the kind of babysitter Alec was, forcing Jace and Isabelle to sit in chairs for hours and watching him play video games, just so he knew they didn't get into any trouble.

Alec sometimes let them play but almost immediately worried they were going to lose all his progress. It was funny to look back on as present-day Alec continued to whisper furiously into his headset about which cameras to turn on and off at certain times.

Jace only took a moment to throw his guitar over his shoulder, comforted by the familiar thump against his back. He wasn't going to be Jace Herondale international rockstar tonight. He wasn't even going to be Jace Herondale sought after heartthrob. He was going to be Jace Herondale, the boy who lost himself a long time ago and found himself again.

The roaring of the crowd did nothing to waver his decision to forgo singing his newest hit tonight for something a little different, a little more appropriate for the heart of country music.

"Hello, Nashville!" he shouted as the lights blinded his vision, the deafening response enough to push him backward if he hadn't been prepared.

He put the microphone in the stand before him and swung his guitar around front, strumming a few chords and smirking at the cheers. "I'm going to do something a bit different tonight." He paused until the crowd settled, unable to hold back the grin stretching across his face. "I don't usually sing country." More wild screams. "But I think tonight is a good excuse to start."

_Hey there, weird kid in your high-top shoes_

_Sitting in the back of the class; I was just like you_

_Always left out, never fit in_

_Owning that path you're walking in._

_Mr. Misunderstood, Mr. Misunderstood_

In his earpiece, he heard several people, including his manager, inquiring what he was doing, startled by the soft notes he was hitting when he was supposed to be screaming.

_Now, your buddies get their rocks of on Top 40 radio_

_But you love your daddy's vinyl, old-time rock and roll_

_Elvis Costello, Ray Wylie Hubbard, and think Jeff Tweedy is one bad mother_

_Mr. Misunderstood, Mr. Misunderstood_

He threw out his hands to gesture around himself quickly, winking at a girl trying to crawl up the stage as he played again.

_One day you'll lead the charge, you'll lead the band_

_Guitar Hero with lightning hands_

He wiggled his fingers a bit, igniting more lustful scre_ams._

_And the girls will like your tattoos and the veins in your arms_

His arm curled into a muscle, his biceps bulging_._

_They'll be helpless to your musical charms_

_And they'll all hold up their hands_

_And they'll all wanna dance_

_With Mr. Misunderstood, Mr. Misunderstood_

He felt his body swaying to the music, the notes flooding through him in a way they hadn't in so long, seeming to burst from his lips with the least amount of effort as he began to pick up the pace.

_First time I met Alabama Hannah, I was skinny as a rail_

_Red hair tied up in a blue bandana; she was hotter than the devil's Hell_

_She turned me on to Back Porch Pickers, Jackson Pollock, and gin_

_Her daddy didn't trust my intentions, so he turned to his daddy's old .410_

_I'm Mr. Misunderstood, Mr. Misunderstood_

He shut out the thoughts of redheaded women as he tapped his foot against the stage, smiling out at the hands in the air. This is why he joined music, for this ethereal feeling of the hot lights against his face and hundreds conjoined in one soul, belting their hearts out because the music means something, because it speaks to their experiences and to their live. Not because he sold out to make the same old music over and over again, no better than the running joke that was Nickelback.

His chest was heaving as he brought the song to a close, lifting his chin.

_Hey there, weird kid in your high-top shoes_

_Sitting in the back of the class; I was just like you_

_Mr. Misunderstood (I understand)_

_Mr. Misunderstood (I understand)_

_Mr. Misunderstood (I understand)_

_Mr. Misunderstood (I understand)_

_Mr. Misunderstood (I understand)_

_I'm Mr. Misunderstood (let's go out of here)_

The lights went down, and he threw his guitar back over his shoulder, disappearing behind the curtain as the crowd finished his song.

X.O.X.O.X

"How do you feel about the country theme tonight?" Alec asked, thrusting a microphone into her face the way Jace had been thrusting into her only hours earlier. Her mind was scrambled between bouts of pleasure and pain. She'd been so stupid to let him in again, to give herself to him again after all the shit he'd put her through.

"Country music is one genre that always holds a message. You can tell stories with it, and I think that's the most exciting thing," she responded sounding as composed as ever. "I've also heard Nashville tends to create a pretty fun crowd, and I can't wait to feel all that energy."

As they moved on to film the next contestant's answers, Clary collapsed into the makeup chair, blowing a curl from her face as Isabelle's skilled fingers tangled into her hair. "I'm so lucky to have you," Clary mused, allowing Isabelle full control of her scalp and face. "I'm glad you didn't have to work, so you could come."

Clary could see Isabelle's knowing look in the mirror. "Alright, Clary, cut the sappy shit. You have to act like I didn't let you chug a bottle of wine in the corner of your bedroom while we watched Adam Sandler rom-coms on repeat."

She giggled as Isabelle force-fed her a chunk of bread, thankful they had their own dressing rooms to prepare for tonight's performance. That whole afternoon, Isabelle didn't bring up her secret and let her mourn in peace with a bit of booze and a lot of humor.

"Also, make sure nobody finds out that you had sex with Jace on the airplane. I don't think fraternizing with Jace is technically against the rules, but it will surely lose you popularity votes." Nodding over a glass of water, Clary felt her mind beginning to clear slowly. She could hear the roaring crowd in the auditorium and the last sound checks before Jace's performance. She was expected to be side stage with the rest of the contestants, and she had to be sobered up. "I'm done with you."

Clary hopped delicately out of the chair, only giving herself a moment to praise Isabelle's impeccable work of turning her hair from frizzy ringlets to loose curls falling down her back. She pulled on a flowing white dress that fell just above her knees and strapped herself into golden heels, ignoring the initial thought that they would go nicely with Jace's eyes.

Alec knocked once before peeking his head in, telling Clary it was time to go.

She'd skipped standing at the edge of the curtain for Jace's performance, but word spread fast. He didn't sing his usual rock music. He finally sang a song that _meant _something. And that terrified her.

She flashed a smile at Magnus as she stepped out of the shadows, his approving nod at her outfit. There were a few hoots, but the room was silent as the guitar and piano played the opening notes.

_If anyone asks, you never saw me_

_And I know you know better than to call me_

_Let's just hide out under the covers_

_One more secret between two old lovers_

_What can it hurt?_

Her deep voice resonated through the silent room, everyone staring with wide eyes from the edge of their seats. She desperately tried to avoid Jace's heavy gaze but always found her eyes flickering back to his, radiating gold like the sun. If she looked for too long, she'd surely be blind.

_I ain't hung up on you_

_I ain't in love with you_

_This is just time that I'm wasting_

_One or two little sips_

_I'm alright, I can quit_

_You're just some wine that I'm tasting_

He had that damn smirk now, knowing her song was about him, about her inability to stay away, to forget him. God, if that smirk didn't make her want to jump over the judges table and crush their lips together, if it didn't make her want to get on her knees and…

_I don't have to have you_

_I don't need to need you_

_Just a high that I'm chasing_

_Don't think I'm coming back_

_It's just a relapse_

He was shaking his head now, his eyes sparkling with mischief, undoubtedly remembering the airplane ride where she'd basically thrown herself at him, all restraint gone.

_I know I said, I said it was over_

_But it's hard when I miss you to stay sober_

_So if I show up here at your door again_

_Oh, it's just me falling off of the wagon_

_What can it hurt?_

It could hurt her. It could hurt Jace. Jace still didn't know. Jace needed to know. Jace couldn't know.

_I ain't hung up on you_

_I ain't in love with you_

_This is just time that I'm wasting_

_One or two little sips_

_I'm alright, I can quit_

_You're just some wine that I'm tasting_

She instead averted her attention to the little looks exchanged between Maia and Jordan, nothing to do with her. They were flirting. They were falling in love. A story that might work out.

_I don't have to have you_

_I don't need to need you_

_Just a high that I'm chasing_

_Don't think I'm coming back_

_It's just a relapse_

_I can quit when I'm ready (I can quit)_

_I ain't hurting nobody but me_

She was hurting herself. She was tearing herself apart stitch by precious stitch, the ones she'd used to sew her soul back together after he'd left her. This time, though, it was her own fault.

_I ain't hung up on you_

_I ain't in love with you_

_This is just time that I'm wasting_

_One or two little sips_

_I'm alright, I can quit_

_You're just some wine that I'm tasting_

This song was a desperate cry to make herself believe this, to give herself the power to stay away, to move on like she thought she'd had.

_I don't have to have you_

_I don't need to need you_

_Just a high that I'm chasing_

_Don't think I'm coming back_

_It's just a relapse_

_Oh, no_

_Don't think I'm coming back_

_It's just a relapse_

Who was she kidding, she loved Jace and always would. Her chest was heaving, the crowd leaping out of their stunned silence to give her a standing ovation. She couldn't hear the judge's comments over the roaring in her ears.

But she heard him. She always heard him.

"I think you've missed your calling," he said with a smirk, referring to himself rather than the genre of music. She set her jaw visibly, narrowing her gaze on him before smiling broadly and waving at the crowd.

* * *

_Review? :)_


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